







-- - 'fit 

4 


' ” "y O \' "' V '- v - 

_ K » -ii * ^ - 

" 1 ^^'h ^ ^ 

- '■ . -Z 7//// V : 

'O •%• <t> O ^ V 

^'- '''<•“ ''’ , ' ' » * ^<6 ^ * ' X ' ■ ° ^ *■ « ' o 

CP ' > i '^ ^ 

^ ^ ^ r, ^m^K' 

\%^ W;^^\n 0 c > ^ ^ o 

^ ■^' /yrA^W ', ^ V » ^ ^ M ' XSSS ^ ^ 

* - i > 

<?> ..S 


v ' .% * '(4 

- i ^ , v ., <4 


L « '-^ VJ " ^irm rr, -vv - *• 

I * 4 - Tt , ' fc 3* ST ^^ = \® 

* 1 •* 0 4*^ ' ®.. *91'“ \V 

vX 0'’' y / > ^0^ *■'”"% C ' \> v ' 

^ <» '■>^ (1^ <»r J^\ Kl^'"/)r "^’n \N‘ “? 

V •/ V 


* 0 , V ■* A „ ^ <; 

'U # .^XL *y 

■f v ' ^ yr ' v '^ v ... , 




o *0^ 

^ ^ '<p 

y . yy^ 'P 



sT- Y 

a O o ' 


^ xS 

;X = %.4^' 

y ? ,1 >. ^ ^//.imm. • vv vA, 


,A 


A ' 

-f y ^ « o 

/a •< V = / tQ 

, f 0 o 

J V * ■■> . 0 * / , . „ \ ^ 9 1 '• ’ 

'^' ^ A*C* ^ f? S^ ^ 'Pxv . A. .^iCWifeT Mfct- ' 

V . <1 ,>y - v . ,.(\'^-»^ Ox tVi ^ * 

'«»'■* .A V, , •?, * S ■- '' -'^ 

^ - Xc . ■ c \\ f 0 ^ ^ >{. '^>- 

v .-'^" “ Xr ^'^ v !* '^-3 

: ■'• ^ -"oo 

' '' 4 ^^^' . 4 " * 

«*• > X ' - 


I A 


^ ^ " (4^"' , V I fi ^ . 

'■^' '''^ -y '^ > = 


fl <1 

^ .0' 

^ ^ / '% 

I * y 5, 

' x . > yV XX 



" ^KSfe " - V ^ ^ %/ MW - ' yr >. " 

O , * s ^ *0 ' o ^ k '^ a 

'^O ^ ■>^'* " - t ^, a'X c “ 

'„ V 0° 4 V /7%^% ‘ Xs ^^- V^y 

C ^ -"o ^ - ■ X '' v ^ = ", 




/•VJ ^ 
0 ^ 










<• .'\ ■ .D '>, o' , 0 - <• ^ 0 . 

“ « c « ^ ♦ '‘O. .0^ , <■ ' ' * < •%, 

. . 

x„ * ^0 c 


r/K 

rX 


^ -v T- \ 

C. (y / / ^^L^ySi \\ x\ te 4 ^'“•^^r.nnrn 



2 ^ * \ (fy' ^LK ^ ^ 

“ jv* 

• ■"'^oV » 

> ' ^ v*" \V ^ y. ^ 

* -^0 O y o ^ y '■*<5^ 

^ 8 l\* ‘.^ S'^O/ '^OnO 


' o - vO q^ >- 

0 O ^ 

r> ’^\o^ ^v. 0 ,% .*»■'“ 

* "*" ' rKV^^ V/" ^ *^A \V 



' 8 *»■ 

A ^ "/ 

A ^ 0 N c « 

LWlI C- ^ * O 

Si? > ^ r-5SN\ ^ O 

<r «■ 



r\ 
















s., 'f 


% i 




f’l)' 


J < 








•'^SS 


I'.CH 




»l 4 -,,-J< 




m- 




iV»:':'*^ 


il 


» J* 


,vo 


mii 


'A‘ 


■v‘» 








•>'] 


v';:yi 


■'( 


'# 






.^1 


« » * • 


^ i\ 


] 




i. :i 


•< 


IV 


' ► 




'ja 


V>',.J 


i 


». . t 




t * 


A 




^ » ■« 4 I 


H 


V 


WJ 




i> 


vA iV 


:f»i 




1*^ 


> 


i.»> 




i 






If f 


t 




♦ * 








>*i 


V 






» « 


t r 


•* . ^ 


r-P 


W •' i 




'S’l 


M 


i 




f '.^ 


/V 


i V t 


F #4 , » 


;A.-„ j) 




\n 


& ' 4 


i\ 


h 


» 


f . I 


# Iv 41 




• V 


Mi 










.11' 


m 




I* 




*f]' ' » i w , ■■"'^* 

/:4'^f I iA\ 


» rt 


>« 


'ft 




f ^ 




i 








nt ^ 


>. ; . 4 


Hi 


[Si. 


;* “ 






f 


-'•SHO 


V 


'n 


fltV4ii 




A 


.*-■ 




s * 


J 






iyr:r 


J y I 


yi ' "'1''^'^ tir 


>A’ 








fiA 


.7V 


«'t- 


V \ 


»: 'K 


i| ' :-'*?*^'l!^« 




V », 


i U' 


■M 


n 










I % 


•‘Il 




t, 


i 


ih 


t i 


\> 




i 




4 •> 


» ! • 




I 


iii®: 


i"^V,«v4 ,v+'h^-y/': 

-r’ J'M ' ■ H •{, .’I *• *_J 


'l • '<'.♦. 


- A '-^, '‘ 


r Bca 


'll 


•u 


f 


/ ^IJ 




il 


;iK V * ii 

»V/' ( rZ 


I :’»l' 


x^ 7 . V. 


iV 


il, > 






; 


\ w: 


J '• V 






fit 


ff 


» * 


Ifr 


> 'i 


4»* 


> r 


M I 


19 


/i 'Ilk, 


wV, 


1' * 


a 


•.A 






4 i 




il. 


r\i 


i' 


* ^ 


1 




i% 


• W « t 


’Am 




p» 


u#- 


I. '.I 


',(8* 


f* >' 


* i 


J} 


i'! 




V '’/- 




f 


f • % 




r#. 


u I t 


i 


.0*1 




V'// 


» K 




« M '.4 




«Ol 




ii 


>a.H 


M 






M 


M 


fA 


(i 


A 


I 




Yr: 


ji 




•iiW 


• §Ji I 




A>J 




kll. 



/ 


S'. 

OVERLAND LIBRARY NO. 1. 


STORIES AND NOVELS 


FROM THE GERMAN 

OF 

RUDOLF LINDAU. 


L 


contents: 

HANS, THE DREAMER. ALL IN VAIN. FIRST LOVE. 











\ r 






Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1885, by 
LOUIS SCHICK, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 

[From the German of Rudolf Lindau.] 


Copyright, 1885, by l. schick. 



TT liomas Midford stepped slowly forth from one of 
those charming, elegant little houses that ornament the 
upper part of the Champs Elysees in Paris. He stood 
still a few seconds, gazing straight in front of him, his 
head inclined to one side, and then turned towards the 
Place de la Concorde. After taking about twenty steps 
in this direction, he turned around and returned to the 
house he had just quitted, even more slowl}' than he had 
left it. He crossed the threshold ; but then he seemed to 
become undecided again, for lie halted in the vestibule, 
and glancing around absent-mindedl}^, rubbed his chin 
meditatively, whistling softly to himself. Finall}' he 
pressed his hat down tight upon his forehead, and said 
half audibly: “No, it will not do!” — and then, his hands 
in his pockets, and his eyes cast down, he strolled down 
the broad avenue with thousands of other promenaders, 
who had been attracted to the Bois de Boulogne b}" the 
Sunday afternoon and the beautiful spring weather, and 
were now returning to the city. He did not turn around 
again, nor pa}^ any attention to the well-dressed people 
who met or hastened past him. But he repeated several 
times, speaking to himself, the same words which he had 
uttered in the vestibule, nodding his head at the same 
time, as if acquiescing in them: — “It will not do. . . . 
even with the best of wills, it will not do!” 


IIANS, TIIK DREAMER. 


(] 

“What is it that will not do, Tom?” 

The one thus addressed stopped and glanced with a 
preoccupied air into the bright, pleasant face of the 
speaker, who continued, laughing: 

“Not yet cured of your old habit of carrying on 
delightful conversations solely and alone for 3^our private 
benefit? Let other people have some of the good of 
them! — So tell me all about it: what is it that will not 
do, to-day?” 

Midford was silent a few moments. Then he asked: 
“What was it really that I was saying ? What did you 
hear?” 

“You were asserting that something would not do. . . 
even with the best of wills it would not do!” 

“And I was quite right,” answered Midford, gravely 
and positively: “It really will not do.” 

“I do not doubt it at all ; but tell me now why it will 
not do ?” 

IMidford rubbed his chin again, looking past his 
friend into the air, l)ut so closely that the latter was not 
quite certain whether he was being looked at or not, and 
finally said: 

“Wh}^.... well, because, Sand}^, because children 
alone haA^e the privilege of being allowed to accept pres- 
ents which the}" neither can nor even wish to return, 
without its being considered a disgrace ; and because I, 
in the present case, would be only the one to receive. Con- 
sequently, not being a child any longer, I should Inn^e to 
consider it a disgrace, and that would not do. Do you 
understand now ?” 

“Not a word!” 

“No matter. I understand ; that is enough ... Good 
eA^ening, Sandy. Come and see me soon. For a long 
time I liaA^e not felt so desolate as. . . . as during the last 


TIANS, TIIK DREAMER. 


ten minutes. No, wait a minute! I will come and see 
you early tomorrow morning. Perhaps you can give me 
some good advice.” 

Midford extended his hand to his friend Edington 
and would then have left him, had not the latter laid his 
hand on his friend’s arm and detained him, sa3dng: 

‘•Come, out with it! What is it that will not do?” 

“Well — what I want most on earth!” and with this 
Midford turned impatient!}" and somewhat crossl}" aside, 
and went on his way. 

Edington looked after him. shaking his head and 
murmuring to himself: “Still the same as ever — Hans, 
the Dreamer!” 

While this conversation was taking place on the 
Champs Elysees, a young girl was sitting at a window of 
the house that Midford had so recently left. She was 
looking out upon the street, but she saw nothing of what 
was going on there. Her own thoughts occupied her 
completely, to the exclusion of everything else. She was 
a handsome girl, the finished type of the American beaut}": 
tall, slender, stylish, with slim little hands and feet ; a 
wonderfully delicate, transparent, pale complexion ; hair, 
reddish-brown and wavy ; ' intelligent, clear brown eyes ; 
the forehead a trifie too high ; the nose a trifie too deli- 
cate ; the mouth, with its red lips and its closely set rows 
of white teeth, somewhat too small ; the well-formed chin 
too large — almost a masculine chin. The expression of 
the whole face intelligent, clear and determined. Edith 
Comyn was not a young lady whose heart one could hope 
to touch by quoting a sentimental poem, — a tranquil, 
dignified girl, very “matter of fact,” as her compatriots 
said of her. 

Yet the deliberate, prosaic Edith was at this moment 
very much excited and annoyed — as indeed she had good 


8 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


reason to be. Something had just happened to her that 
even men in a like case forgive but grudgingly and ex- 
ceedingly rarely, but which women never forgive. The 
man whom she had given to understand, as distinctly as 
was compatible with her self-respect, that she would not 
be displeased if he should draw her to his heart and kiss 
her — this man had not drawn her to his heart and had 
not kissed her. He had, on the contrary, only pressed 
gently the little slender hand which rested so confidingly 
in his, and had then — dropped it, uttering as he did so, 
in an undertone, four mysterious words: ‘dt will not do.” 
He looked the while very peculiar, very sad, but that did 
not change an3dhing in the dreadful fact that he had not 
retained the little hand and besought its owner to entrust 
it to him for life. And who was this man who had 
dared to inflict this disgrace upon her, — upon //^r, Edith 
Comyn, at whose feet the most elegant, the most charming 
and the wealthiest among all the gentlemen of Paris were 
kneeling. Was it for this that she had made fun of the 
old and enamoured Marquis de Contades, shown the 
elegant Adscount Beauchamp the door, sent back to 
America in despair the wealthy Daniel AVelsh from 
Brooklyn, and cast aside the still wealthier William Hale 
from Sacramento. — AVas it for this tliat she had rejected 
all the offers made her during the past winter, — among 
them some really brilliant and tempting ones, — to be now 
‘‘spurned” by a Thomas Midford ? She blushed to her 
forehead with shame and indignation at the thought. — 
AVho was Thomas Midford, to think that he could vent- 
ure to mortify her thus with impunity ? AVas he a prince, 
a millionaire, a celebrify^, a miracle of beaufyy talent or 
elegance ? — None of these. The simplest, the most un- 
interesting among all her acquaintances, was he. Rich ? — 
Not at all. He did not even keep a horse and carriage. 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


9 


and he did not deprive himself of these luxuries because 
he was sting}', but — as Edith knew from his own lips — 
because his limited means would not permit him to incur 
any such expenses. How had she come to forget herself 
so far as to single out this particular one to encourage, 
while she had alw'ays maintained a cold and distant reserv'e 
with those more faA^ored than he ? Why, for weeks now 
had her thoughts ])een occupied with him, and almost with 
him alone ? When he came to see her, he spoke less 
than any other of her callers, and what he said was not, as 
a rule, especially clever. He preferred to sit near the 
table wdiere the albums were lying, and look them over, 
although he must have seen all the pictures and photo- 
graphs already a hundred times ; and only occasionally, 
at long, far too rare intervals, would he look up, slowly and 
diffidently, and his brown, tranquil eyes would travel around 
the salon until at last, for one brief moment, they would 
rest upon her face. And then her heart would become warm 
and full and insane ideas would pass through her head. 
She would have liked to spring up and embrace him, 
beseeching him to smile once again so sweetly, to smile 
upon her — for he smiled so differently from other people : 
innocently as a child, and yet so sorrowfully! How had it 
happened that she had noticed this in him the very first 
day, — she, who usuall}' A'ouchsafed barely a passing glance 
to strangers ? Was he handsome ? — No. Fair-looking ? 
Not even this. He impressed no one ; he was unassuming 
in ever}' particular, — a young man such as we meet by 
hundreds every day. And yet Edith’s glance loved to 
linger upon his face, and she was obliged to place a 
restraint upon herself, or she would have gazed on him 
continually; and when she succeeded in keeping her eyes 
turned away from him for five minutes, she felt as if there 
were a gnawing at her heart ; she longed for him, and it 


10 


HANS, THE HREAMEK. 


seemed to her as if she had been depriving* herself of a 
great happiness from all eternity! What was it that 
attracted her so powerfully" to him ? The desire to make 
liim happy combined with something like compassion; the 
longing to have him know, without her being obliged to 
tell him, that she sympathized with him. But even this 
c'ompassion was, in a certain way*, objectless, for she did 
not know whether he was unhappy" or whether lie had any" 
cause whatever for being unhappy". He had lieen liA"ing for 
some time in Paris ; belonged to the American colony* 
there, moved in good society", and had neA^er made any* 
c'omplaints, at least in her presence. To her gTeeting : 
•TIow goes the world with y"ou, Mr. Midford ?” she had 
alway"s receh^ed the same reply*: ‘-Splendidly.” “You 
look worried.” “That is only* in appearance. I liaA^e no 
cause for being worried.” “What are y"ou foreA^er think- 
ing about, Mr. Midford ? You are dreaming with your ey-es 
open ; y ou are so preoccupied that one can hardly- talk Avith 
y"ou at all.” “Oh, no! 1 hear eA-eiything. That is only* 
my- way*, y"ou must not be misled by* it. Pray" keep on 
talking.” 

And y et she saAV that he was concealing from her 
something which depressed him ; and she Avould luiA-e liked 
to find out what it was that he wanted. She Avould luiA-e 
gh-en CA^ery-thing that she possessed, Avith joy-, to bring by- 
some magic spell the light of contentment to his silent 
features ; for she loA^ed him as she had never loved be- 
fore, — as well as she could loA^e, — because she felt that he 
loved her more and better than any- of the others, and 
then .... because she loved him. These reasons had been 
sufficient for her and had induced her to distinguish ^Ir. 
Midford from the rest in a way- which did not long remain 
unnoticed by- her mother. 

“I do not understand you,” the latter obserAxnl one 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


11 


da}'; --you are so reserved with everybody, so distant, that 
many persons consider you cold and uns3^mpathetic ; but 
with that man you display a cordiality which there is noth- 
ing to justify, and which, to tell the truth, displeases me 
very much.” 

“Do not call Mr. Midford ‘that man’, if you do not 
wish to hurt my feelings.” 

“I do not want to hurt your feelings, and I am read}' 
to call him anything you choose ; but do explain to me 
what it is 3'ou find so peculiarl}^ attractive in him. I 
examined him again 3'esterda3^, and, to be honest, I must 
sa}' that, even with the best of wills, I could not discover 
an3dhing fascinating about him. ... on the contrar}^, he 
is awkward and clums}'; he has quite a commonplace 
face . . . . ” 

“He looks kind and intelligent.” 

‘•I do not know where 3'ou find the intelligence. Have 
you ever heard him sa}' an3dhing especiall}' witt}^ or brill- 
iant?” 

“I detest great talkers. Mr. Midford pleases me just 
because he is so silent.” 

“Yer}' well, m}- child. I see it does no good to talk 
with 3'ou upon this subject. As for me, I do not like Mr. 
Midford.” 

“And I like him veiy much, mamma.” 

I Miss Edith usually had the last word in all disputes 
with her mother. She belonged to that class of peace- 
loving persons who are charming to live with, if the}" have 
[their own wa}" in eveiything. , She was not exacting, she 
^demanded veiy little from those around her ; but in return 
:she gave them veiy little and never gave up to them in 
an3"thing. Aii}" opinion once formed she continued to 
maintain with quiet obstinac}", and contradiction onl}" made 
her more determined and stubborn. Mrs. Conyii was 


12 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


iiware of this fact and had therefore made it a rule never 
to argue with her daughter. She had learned from ex- 
perience that by refraining from disputing with her, she 
would easiest and best attain her aims. For the self-willed, 
obstinate Edith was b}' no manner of means a model of 
perseverance ; on the contraiy, she was a 3'oung lad}" who 
changed her points of view quite frequently, — and this, 
too, without always a ver}" powerful motive. 

* -St 

* 

Midlbrd’s interest in other persons’ money matters 
was A'eiy slight. He knew, if not from direct experience, 
yet by meditating upon his own case, that the wealth of 
his friends and acquaintances would never be of any prac- 
tical use to him. He did not possess the talent for borrow- 
ing money, and his friends’ fortunes had no A alue for him, 
as he so clearly understood that even the wealthiest among 
them would not have helped him if he had been in need ; 
not because his friends were all, without exception, so 
selfish, but because he knew that he. Midford, was utterly 
lacking in all those qualities which characterize the man to 
whom one lends money. The respect with which most 
persons regard men of wealth was to him incomprehensible. 
In his experience, intercourse with the rich had onl}" cost 
him money, while in the society of those less well-oft' he 
could save inoney. His indifference to the pecuniary 
affairs of others was so genuine, that he did not know 
which of his acquaintances were poor, rich, or in moderate 
circumstances. He judged tliem in all simplicity according 
to the outlays which he saw them make. If any one kept 
horses and carriages, gave dinner parties and balls, and led 
in general the life of a man of wealth. Midford accepted as 
self-evident the fact that he was rich. He thus took it 
for granted that Mrs. Comyn was a lady of wealth, and her 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


13 


daughter an heiress, who sooner or later would come into 
the possession of a large fortune. This last thought it 
was with which he was now occupied, as he was proceed- 
ing on his way Monda}^ morning to call on his friend 
Edington. 

Alexander Edington, the younger partner in an Amer- 
ican banking house established in Paris, was sitting in his 
office engaged in reading the morning papers when Thomas 
Midford entered the room. The new-comer shook hands 
with his friend and then dropped into a chair which stood 
near the desk at which Edington usually wrote. After a 
silence of a few minutes’ duration, which the American, 
accustomed as he was to so many kinds of eccentricities, 
did not attempt to interrupt. Midford leaned forward, with 
his elbows on his knees, and looking straight ahead, re- 
marked in an undertone : 

“Yes, that is it !” 

The other gentleman cast a side glance at him and 

- said : 

“What ?” 

“What can I do, Sandy, to make money, — lots of 
money, — right away ?” 

“Nothing simpler in the world !” 

A quiet, questioning look from Midford was the re- 
sponse to this. 

Edington answering it, continued : 

“Bu^dng low, selling high, and keeping up this business 
on a large scale, will make you in a short while a wealthy 
man.” 

“I came to have a serious talk with you.” 

“T am speaking in sober earnest.” 

Midford arose calmly: “Well, then, in that case I 
will bid 3"ou good morning and go on my way.” 

Edington stood up also, and laying his hand upon Mid- 


14 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


ford’s shoulder, forced him back into his chair. ^lidford 
offered no opposition, and, when seated, looked up into the 
face of his friend, now standing before him. 

‘‘Thomas Midford, my dear fellow,” said the latter, 
“how can I or how can any reasonable human being give 
you a satisfactory reply to the question which you have 
seen fit to put to me, as confidently as if 3^011 were sure 
there was an answer possible to it : ‘How can I make 
money ?’ Confound it all, don’t 3"ou know that eveiyone 
in the world is asking that same question : Rothschild as 
well as the poorest beggar? Money is made ever}" da}", 
and every day certain people make more or less money; 
but how they do it, that is not their secret — for in that 
case they could reveal it — but their own innate qualities, 
of which even they themselves are ignorant in most cases. 
What good would it do you if Liszt were to explain to you 
in detail how he plays, or Meyerbeer, how he composes, or 
Corot, how he paints ? Would it put you in a position to 
enable you to give a concert, compose an opera or paint a 
picture ? Ho you think that if Rothschild were to describe 
to you ever so minutely how his grandfather managed to 
become a millionaire, you could go and do likewise ? 
Never, never, old fellow ! One man is born with a pecu- 
liar faculty for becoming a man of wealth, exactly as 
another is born with a peculiar faculty for becoming a great 
artist. I know dozens of clever, industrious, educated 
men, who have to fight poverty their whole lives long, and 
who will, in all probability, die poor beggars, in spite of 
their most earnest efforts to make money. If I am not 
mistaken in my estimate of you, Tom, you have about as 
much faculty for making a millionaire of yourself as I have 
for making a — bishop : not a preeminent faculty, Tom, by 
no means a preeminent faculty !” 

Midford, who had been drawing geometrical figures 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


15 


with his cane upon the carpet, with his e^^es still cast down, 
answered half-audibly : 

‘‘You may be right. . . . Too bad !” 

“Yes, it is too bad, but no more and no less so than 
that you have no especial faculty for making a painter or a 
musician of yourself” 

“That seems logical.... And now I will go.” He 
arose, rubbed his hands together and repeated slowly : “It 
is really too bad!.... Good morning, Sand}^” But the 
latter stepped between him and the door, saying : 

“Stay a minute longer. How to make a fortune is 
something in which I am unfortunately unable to instruct 
you ; but if you are temporarily embarrassed, I will place 
at 3’our disposal, with the greatest pleasure, whatever 
amount you may require. ...” 

Midford shook his head. 

“ . . . . Or, if 3’ou are looking for some situation which 
will give you enough to live on, I might perhaps be able to 
assist you.” 

“That would do me no good. ... I want to make a 
fortune right away.” 

“So do I, too, my dear Midford.” 

The latter was rubbing his chin again in his abstrac- 
tion. 

“Tell me,” he began, after a brief pause. “You have 
the reputation of being a very clever young man, and I 
should like to ask you. . . ., do you think. ...” 

He hesitated and stopped, stepped to the window, still 
lost in thought, and looked out upon the street ; then he 
again approached Edington, and continued in his medita- 
tive way : 

“Do you believe the stories we read in novels which 
tell about young men who perform all sorts of miracles in 
order to win or compete for the lady of their love ?” 


16 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


“That depends upon the kind of miracles the}" de- 
scribe.” 

“Well, I will be more explicit : do you believe that a 
poor tramp like me. ...” 

“I did not know that 3^011 were a tramp.” 

“I have been practically a tramp again for some little 
time now.” 

“I am very sorry to hear that.” 

“That does not help the matter any, l)ut I am much 
obliged all the same .... do you believe that a poor tramp, 
such as I have told you I am, could manage things so as 
to become a rich man within a short* space of time, when 
that is the onl}^ means by which he can win the heart and 
hand of the woman he loves ?” 

“Yes ; — if you would or could steal the money ; 
otherwise I see no way, indeed. Nonsense, everything 
else that may be wTitten in novels ! Paper is patient. 
Where could you come across so much money all of a 
sudden ? Do you believe that you w^ould be sure to find 
it because 3’ou need it ? Ever3d)od3" needs mone}^ .... 
Because 3 011 long for it with greater eagerness ? Ever} - 
bod}" else is in the same condition. No, Tom, do not de- 
ceive 3"ourself: between toda}" and tomorrow or the da}’ 
after tomorrow, no one like you can make himself a man 
of w"ealth in any usual, honorable way. You might w"in the 
chief prize in a lottery, or some unknown uncle in India 
might die and leave you a fortune next week, — but such 
things as these have nothing to do with your love. Can 
you imagine that you could make yourself an artist of- 
importance before tomorrow night, by the might of your 
love? — No? You are even less likely to become a rich 
man ! You can rely upon what I say, and you can tell 
your novel writers, with my compliments, that they do not 
understand anything about the matter.” 


HANS, THE DREA3IER. 


17 


‘‘It seems so to me, too. . . . But now I really 
must go.” 

Midford departed, w^ent down the Rue Castigllone, 
turned then to the right and strolled up the Champs 
Elysees. “I knew that it w^ould not do,” he said to 
himself; “but it is best that I should tell her just wdiy it 
will not do.” 

He entered a reading room, called for pen and paper, 
and wu’ote the following note, after having reflected for 
some time, resting his head on his hand ; 

•‘Dear Miss Corny n: 

I would like to have a few minutes’ undisturbed con- 
versation with 3^011. I might have told 3^011 3^esterda3' 
what I now wish to sa3', but at that time the matter w^as 
not quite clear to me. Please, therefore, be so kind as to 
let me know when I can find 3"ou at home. The bearer 
will wait for 3^0111* answer. 

Sincerel3" 3"ours, 

Tho3ias Midford.” 

Edith was sitting after breakfast wdtli her mother in 
the salon when this note Tvas brought to her. She glanced 
through the few lines in a second and a delicious warmth 
filled her heart. She drew a deep breath and exclaimed 
sof tl3^ : ‘ ‘Thank Heaven ! ’ ’ 

“Who has been writing to 3^011 ?” inquired her 
mother. 

“A friend,” Edith replied curtl3^ 

Mrs. Com3m was accustomed to see her daughter act 
upon her own responsibilit3", having brought her up 
according to certain theories at which a French or Gler- 
man mother would have shaken her head, but from 
which she was now the less inclined to deviate, as she had 
attained a result upon which she considered that she 
might justly pride herself. Edith was a well- trained girl, 
who had never misused the liberty which she had always 


18 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


enjoyed, and who justified in the fullest degree the con- 
fidence which her mother reposed in her. Mrs. Coniyn 
consequent!}^ was content with the laconic answer which 
Edith had given her, and observed without uneasiness, 
although not without some curiosity, that she was making 
preparations to answer the letter she had just received. 

‘‘Are you going to drive with me ?” Mrs. Corny n 
inquired, rising. 

‘‘No, dear mamma. I shall stay at home. When 
will you be back ?” 

“About four o'clock.” 

Mrs. Comyn left the salon. She saw a messenger 
waiting in the hall, but the idea of questioning him did 
not even occur to her. She had taught her daughter to 
respect the privacy of others’ letters, and she had always 
set her the best of examples in the exercise of this duty. 

The note which Thomas Midford received in the cafe, 
where he had waited for the reply to his letter to Edith, 
contained only a couple of lines : 

“I shall be at home at one o’clock, and shall be A^ery 
glad to see you. E. C.” 

It was half-past twelve. Thomas started slowly upon 
his way to the tiny hotel in the upper part of the Champs 
Ely sees. Not far from the house an open carriage rolled 
past him^ in which Mrs. Comyn was seated. Midford 
raised his hat ; she returned his greeting with cold polite- 
ness. Thomas looked after her : 

“She would make an uncomfortable mother-in-law for 
a penniless son-in-law,” he murmured to himself. 

He walked up the steps of the Comyn residence and ; 
waited there quietly until his watch marked one minute ■ 
of one. Then, with a throbbing heart, he pulled the bell, 
and immediately afterwards, as soon as the door was j 


HANf^, THE HREAMEB. 


10 


opened, he entered the room in which Edith was waiting 
for him. She arose quickly and came to meet him with 
outstretched hands. She had forgiven him for everything 
that had happened between them the day before. It had 
been his diffidence, she had decided, that had prevented 
him from saying then what she wished to hear from him. 
He had come now, to speak plainly at last, to confess his 
love to her. She was happy' 

But the tender, longing glance with which her eyes 
gave him welcome remained unanswered. He held her 
hand tightly, but his eyes were fastened upon the floor. 
Finally he glanced up timidly at her, and then at once his 
gaze wandered hesitatingly about the room. He had pre- 
pared a well-turned little speech in his head. But now 
his memory utterly refused to do his bidding. A pause 
ensued, which soon became painful. Edith, withdrawing 
her hand gently, and with some embarrassment, sank into 
a chair. 

I “Miss Comyn,” he began at last, “I have come to 
bid you farewell.” 

This she had not expected. A sensation of impotent 
anger overpowered her ; she felt herself wounded and 
humiliated in her inmost soul. 

“Farewell,” she said, rising quickly. 

“No; do not leave me thus ; listen to me! Let me 
tell you why I am going.” His voice was low and in- 
tensely sad. 

Her indignation vanished as rapidly as it had arisen. 
She was still trembling from her violent agitation, but she 
hoped again. All was not yet lost, so long as he stood 
before her and could speak with her, within reach, in the 
power of her glances. 

“Miss Edith,” he continued, after she had reseated 
herself, “I have been talking this morning with an intelli- 


20 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


gent and kindl3’-disposed gentleman, and he has confirmed 
me in what, after mature reflection, I had concluded to be 
the truth, namely, that it would be extremely difficult, if 
not absolutely impossible, for me, in a short space of time, 
to make a fortune.” 

Edith looked up at him in astonishment. Midford 
did not notice this ; he was utterl}^ and entirely engaged 
in seeking to give expression to the thoughts with which 
his brain was teeming. He seated himself, uninvited, upon 
a chair opposite Edith’s, and continued in a low tone of 
voice, as if he were speaking to himself He held his head 
somewhat cast down and slowl}" rubbed his thumb with 
his forefinger. 

“If T were a man of rare ability, I would sa}" to m}’- 
self that I would, sooner or later, succeed in making my- 
self a rich man. If I were heedless, I should cast off from 
my mind that which is wonying me at this moment. I 
am not a genius and I am not heedless ; I am a sensible 
man and I hope that I shall always remain an honest man. 
To incur debts which one cannot pay, or to live on other 
persons’ money, when one is strong enough to earn one’s 
own bread, is not honest, according to 1113^ wa3^ of thinking. 
Perhaps I ma3^ be mistaken. There ma3' be circumstances 
which ma3' make it right to incur debts which we know we 
cannot pay, or to allow ourselves to be supported by 
friends and relatives. But it does not seem to me to be 
consistent, and hence it does not seem right. ... If I at 
the present time. ... You cannot know how much I have 
considered this matter for months .... if I wanted to get 
married toda3", what is it that I should be doing ? — Some- 
thing wise, foolish ? — No. From my point of view it 
would be something dishonest. Wherefore ? — It is very 
clear, very simple : I know with absolute certaint3^ that 
what I possess would not be sufficient to satisf3^ the 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


21 


demands which a woman brought up in luxurious sur- 
roundings w'ould be justified in making, and upon whose 
realization her happiness would depend more or less. If 
this woman were to love me so well that she would be 
willing to . share my privations — No ; this is not the 
question, for she would not have to impose any privations 
upon herself, as she is rich. Ought she to revel in luxury 
and I alone lead the life of a poor man ? . . . . Neither would 
that do ... . please follow my argument : she, the rich wife, 
would not accept my suit unless she loved me ; and in that 
case she would, as a matter of course, wish to share with 
me eveiything that she possessed. Then w^hat would 
happen ? — I should be living on m}' wife’s money. This 
happens frequently. I say it will not do, it will not do 
for me. If I were certain, or if I dared to entertain 
the hope, that some time in the future I might become 
a man of wealth, then I would consider that wdiich I was 
obliged to accept from her as a loan, in a certain sense. 
But the probabilities are, that I shall never make a for- 
tune .... I should therefore simply be allowing m3^self to 
be supported by m}^ wife .... This I could not do ... . Love 
pa3^s and keeps no account ! The one who gives ma3^ think 
and say this ; if the one who takes does so, it seems to me 
— well, ignominious, to express it mildl3^ If I, for 
example, were to speculate in this fashion, I should, as the 
taker, soon become contemptible in m3" own eyes, .... and, 
who knows, perhaps she, the rich, giving wife, might also 
learn to despise me in time. True, genuine love does not 
take ever3"thing into consideration so, it is blind. I con- 
sider it all, I see quite plainl3". Then perhaps I do not 
truly love .... It is very complicated .... Do 3"ou under- 
stand me. Miss Edith?” 

She kept her e3^es cast down and did not stir. 

‘T cannot sa3" ever3"thing as I have it in m3" heart,” 


22 


haNs, the dreamer. 


he went on. ‘‘The more I sa}’, the more I find to explain. || 
It all seems full of contradictions. If I love, I ought to be 'i, 
able to surmount every ol^stacle, but this I cannot do. g 
Well then, perhaps I do not love and only imagine that I || 
do. . . . In this case there is actually no excuse for my tj 
suing for the hand of the one whom I pretend to love .... 3 
and therefore .... and so ... . I have come to bid you jj 
farewell.” n 

He arose, pushed back his chair and stood in silence 3 
before her. She did not know what she ought to say. She 
had imagined her love-romance, — had in reality, and in i 
her daj^-dreams, received many a declaration of love, but 
none had been like this that she had just heard. She was 
completely at a" loss. 

Midford looked at her absent-mindedly and silently for ; 
a few seconds, then he stepped behind the chair from which 
he had risen and, stroking the back gently, as if it were j 
some living being, he continued, in a calm, even tone. 

“I knew in California a man who used to drink a great | 
deal. For some unknown reason I had a certain feeling of 
friendship for him. He frequently sought my society . 
One evening he said to me : Life hammers a fellow hard. i 
1 would never have believed it before, that a man could 
live quite contentedly with a great crime on his heart. ■ — 

I did not understand him, but I did not wish to question 
him just then, as he was half drunk, and it seemed to me 
that I should be taking an unwarrantable advantage of him : 
if I were to put incriminating questions to him in that con- 
dition. A fortnight later he hanged himself, and then we 
learned that for some time he had been a defaulter, and 
that his crime would have been found out within a few : 
days. Many persons can live in crime. It is hard to live I 
in disgrace. . . . Do you know what money anxieties are ? — 
No, you do not know. Money anxieties are hard. I have ' 


HANS, THE HEEAMEH. 


23 


great anxieties of this kind ; but I live with them .... now 
and then quite contentedly. I might perhaps be able to 
live with crime .... I do not know ... but this I do know, 
positively, that in disgrace, with your contempt, I could 
not live. Yes, a man must make this all plain to himself, 
even if he does love. It does not show genius, but to m}^ 
mind it is honest, honorable. . . . Does love excuse dis- 
honor ? . . . . Not for any length of time, I should think. . . , 
And therefore, once more, farewell !” 

He approached the door. There he turned for the 
last time and said: 

^‘Will you not give me a kind word to take with me 
on the long and dreary way which lies before me? ” 

Then she looked up, and in a voice suffocated with 
tears, said softly: “Farewell, Mr. Midford.” 
***** * * * 

Thomas Midford had told Edith that he had great 
money anxieties. He had added that in spite of them he 
lived now and then quite contentedly; but in reality this 
contentment had onl}^ ver}^ rarely fallen to his share. Of 
late, especiall}^, his cares had been weighing upon him so 
heavily that he sometimes thought he would be obliged to 
succumb; but then he would say to himself: “ I must not 
leave a dut}^ unfulfilled because I long for rest. I belong 
to my creditors.” And he lived and toiled on. A few 
3’ears previously he had entrusted the largest part of his 
small fortune to an old friend, and in the course of time, 
as his friend requested additional advances, he had incurred 
obligations the extent of which he did not realize. His 
friend went through bankruptc}" and his creditors came to 
Midford one day to demand pa} ment of ten thousand dol- 
lars, for which he had given an acceptance to accommodate 
the bankrupt house. Midford possessed the gift of inspir- 
ing confidence. He told his creditors that they should not 


24 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


lose a cent by him, but that he must ask them to wait. 
To this they had agreed; and since that da}- his constant 
thought had been to save what he could, so as to diminish 
his debt. He was exceedingly simple in his tastes, and his 
sound health allowed him to submit to many privations. 
He could have lived on bread and water, and in hxct he did 
live so economically that, without an3^one around him hav- 
ing any suspicion of it, his acquaintances would have 
thought he was joking if he had told them what he re- 
quired for his support. 

The news that he was ruined had come to him in 
Paris, a few months before the da}^ on which he had made 
such a difficult and complicated declaration of love to 
Edith. He had at that time made up his mind to return 
to California, where he had at one time accepted a remu- 
nerative situation, and where he hoped now to make mone}’ 
enough to satisfy his creditors in the course of three or 
four years. But leaving Paris had become very difficult 
to him: he had not been able to tear himself awa}' from 
Edith Comyn. He reproached himself bitterly for this 
again and again, and 3^et he still remained. But now the 
die was cast: he would and must leave Paris without 
dela}^ 

This was his firm determination as he walked down 
the Champs El}^sees towards his rooms, buried in deep 
thought, his hands clasped behind his back. What seemed 
most remarkable to him now was, that it was no longer the 
anxiety in regard to his creditors that was driving him to 
California. He could not endure to remain aii}^ longer in 
Edith’s vicinity. “I ought not to marry her, — conse- 
quentty I will not marry her,” he mused to himself ‘‘What, 
then, is there to keep me here? — My pleasure? I have no 
right to think of m}' own pleasure; and besides, I could 
not divert m3^self here in Paris without seeing Edith; and 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 25 

as I ought not to seek her society any longer, it is cer- 
tainly best for me to be off.” 

He entered the garden of the Tuileries and seated 
himself upon a bench there. Many thoughts, all veiy 
dreary ones, passed through his mind, and, forlornly com- 
muning with himself, he sat gazing at vacancy. He re- 
called to his memory, he knew not why, a lonely old 
bachelor, whom he had known long 3"ears ago, when at 
home with his parents, since then deceased. He had once 
remarked: life full of cares is more endurable than an 

empty life.” Empt}" Midford’s life had never been; he had 
alwaj^s had worries, and had even created them for himself 
when they did not come unbidden and unwelcome. Now 
it seemed to him as if they had all suddenly vanished, as 
if he had nothing to think of but Edith Corny n. A few 
months ago she had been nothing to him; other cares and 
thoughts had filled his mind completely then; and now it 
seemed to him as if, with Edith, ever^dhing had vanished 
that had filled his heart before. He experienced a horrible 
emptiness. “She was my whole life,” he said to himself; 
“what shall I do without her? ” 

Edith Corny n was no dreamer; but Midford’s last 
words — “Will 3^011 not give me a kind word to take with 
me on the long and drear3" way which lies before me? ” — 
rang in her ears long after Midford had gone. She stepped 
to the window and looked down upon the lively scene at her 
feet. Well-dressed gentlemen and ladies were passing up 
and down the sidewalk; carriages driving rapidly past cov- 
ered the whole broad avenue as with a brilliant, moving 
carpet, dazzling to the e3"es and bewildering to the senses. 
Someone below bowed to her, and she thought, mechan- 
ically, what did it matter to her who bowed to her. It 
was not Midford, for he was gone — on a long and dreaiy 
wa3d What ought she to do? For weeks she had been 


26 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


thinking of Midford alone. On his account she had rejoiced 
when others told her she was beautiful. For him she had 
spoken as soon as he appeared in her vicinity. The sense 
of unrest which she had experienced ever since she had 
known him had become her life. And was she never to see 
him again? She had been so confused when he mentioned 
his departure that she had not been able to reply to him. 
She had only said farewell as if she fully acquiesced in the 
fact of his departure. What must he have thought of her ? 
He probably considered her a girl who prized wealth above 
everything else, and rejected a poor suitor simply because 
he was poor. This idea distressed her. It would not be in 
good taste for her to confess her love to IVIidford, but he 
must be made aware of the fact that she had not allowed 
his declaration to remain unanswered simply because he 
was not rich. “ He will return,” she said to herself; “ I 
must see him again; I must tell him that he is mistaken in 
me. He will not ask for my hand because I am rich. 
That is worthy of him; he shall learn that I am not un- 
worthy of him. And when he has learned this, then . . . . ” 
She did not finish her train of thought; but the sadness 
disappeared suddenly from her features, and smiling con- 
fidently to herself, she turned awa}". 

The windows rattled. A carriage was driving under 
the porte cochere. Immediately afterwards Mrs. Comyn 
entered the room. She threw herself into a chair without 
removing hat or cloak, remarking that the afternoon had 
been very tiresome, — that she had made quite a number of 
calls and that she hoped now no one would disturb her, as 
she wanted to rest. 

‘‘ Did Mr. Midford call to see you ? ” she inquired 
suddenly. 

“Yes. What made 3"ou think so? ” 

“ I met him near the house as I was driving awa^" .... 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


27 


3 Iy dear Edith, if you will follow your mother s advice, 3’ou 
will cease to encourage that 3’oung man to persevere in his 
foolish attentions to 3’ou.” 

‘‘Wh3^ ‘foolish/ mamma?” 

Mrs. Com3 n turned a look upon her daughter which 
said distinctl3’: “\Vh3^ this idle question?” shrugging her 
shoulders at the same time. But Edith did not allow her- 
self to be silenced b3" this pantomime, and repeated her 
question: “ Wh3" foolish, mamma? ” 

“ M3' dear, as a favor, I beg 3^011 not to assume such 
airs of naive innocence,” replied Mrs. Com3m crossly. “You 
are too old for them. They are not becoming to 3^011. 
The3’ do not suit either 3"our face or 3’our st3 le.” 

“Reall3’^, I do not understand 3’ou.” 

“Then it is because 3^011 will not understand me.” 

“You are cruel and unjust to me, today. What is it 
3"ou mean to sa3'? ” 

“There, there, m3^ dear child! I am tired out and a 
little nervous. I did not intend to hurt 3’our feelings. I 
will go to 1113" room now and get rested.” 

She started to arise; but the next sentence that Edith 
uttered chained her fast to her chair. 

“ I think that Mr Midford loves me. He has just told 
me so in prett3" plain terms.” 

“ The wretch!” 

“Mamma! He is the noblest of men, and I — I esteem 
him higher than an3’one else. If he should sue for m3’ 
hand, I. . . . I would la3’ it in his with entire confidence.” 

“H Ja honne henre! These are ver3’ astonishing dis- 
coveries which T am making ! ” Mrs. Com3’n had now 
risen, and stood with angiy, threatening mien in front of 
her daughter. The latter remained calm. 

“ What is there so astonishing in the communication 
I have just made to 3 ou? ” she inquired tranquill3\ Are 


28 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


there no other girls who are loved by young men, and 
wish to marry them? ” 

“You marry Mr. Midford! And have you lost 3 our 
mind? What childish love-affair have 3011 been making 
up for j'ourself ? I regret, indeed, that I did not overlook 
3"our reading more closel3^ Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Mid- 
ford! A prett3" pair! And what would 3^011 live on, pra3Y ” 

Edith had also lost some of her self-control b3' this 
time, and retaliated sharply: 

“ I have not 3"et once said that I am going to marr3" 
Mr. Midford. I 01113^ declared that I should entrust m3^- 
self confidentl}’ to him if he should ask me. The question 
as to what we should live upon if I were his wife need 
give 3^011 no anxiety, mamma! Mr. Midford is a man who 
knows how to work, and, besides, I am rich enough. . . . ” 

“You rich!” exclaimed Mrs. Com3'n, contemptuousl3^ 

Edith started and looked at her mother with inquir3" 
and alarm in her e3^es. The latter had resumed her seat 
and was drumming impatiently with her slender fingers 
upon the arms of the chair. At last Edith continued : 

“I am not impiisitive, and 3^011 will remember that 
never in my life have I asked 3^011 a single question in 
regard to either 3^0111’ pecuniar3^ attairs or 1113^ own. You 
have never, of 3^our own accord, spoken witli me upon the 
matter. ... ” 

“It is not a pleasant subject. I should not have 
mentioned it even now if 3^0111’ foll3" had not made me so 
impatient.” 

“I have alwa3^s supposed that I was rich.” 

“ You have nothing! ” 

“ Why have 3’ou never given me an explanation of 
this before? ” 

“Do not forget the respect due to 3^our mother! 1 do 
not owe 3 oil an3^ explanation ! ” 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


29 


‘^Heaven keep me from forgetting what I owe you! 
but remem})er, mamma, that I am no longer a child. In a 
few weeks I shall be twentj^-one 3^ears old. Am I doing 
wrong when I beg 3^011 to tell me now what 3^011 will not 
withhold from me much longer, as it is a matter affecting 
m3" life’s happiness? ” 

Mrs. Com3m stared at her daughter in the greatest 
astonishment. Never had she allowed herself to imagine 
that Edith, some da3", could demand an account of her, 
and that she, her mother, would then be compelled to 
answer. She was b3" no means a wicked woman. She 
was, in her way, a kind, tender mother. She had for some 
-years been pursuing but one object in life — that of many- 
ing off her 01113" child brilliantl3\ She had seen her grow 
up, but to the mother’s e3"es she had alwa3"s remained 
‘^little Edith,” to whom eyer3"thing that she needed was 
‘‘given.” For the last few 3"ears the mother had been 
giving her prett3" clothes with which to adorn herself, as 
before that she had brought her the loveliest dolls, to give 
her pleasure. She had never liked to think that this 
state of things must cease some da3^ ; and now Edith, all 
of a sudden, had sprung the unexpected question upon 
her, of what was her owit^ what belonged to her in her own 
right, without her receiving it as a present from her 
mother. 

Under ordinaiy circumstances it would have occa- 
sioned Mrs. Com3"n some embarrassment to repl3" to this 
question ; but she was now exceptionall3" excited, and it 
was not 01113^ eas3" for her, it even afforded her a certain 
kind of pleasure, — malicious pleasure it might be called, — 
to make the fact perfectl3" plain to Edith, in clear and un- 
mistakable terms, that the3" both, mother and daughter, 
were about the same as penniless. The property left 1)3" 
the late Mr. Com3"n had not been insignificant, but he had 


30 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


invested the larger part of it badly, and his widow had 
not been successful in her attempts to repair these losses. 
For several years now she had been living, not upon her 
income, but upon her capital, which had rapidly melted 
away and was now reduced to a comparatively small sum. 

“AYe have still a year, perhaps a year and a half, to 
live, my child,” — Mrs. Comyn concluded her recital, while 
she smiled at her daughter exactly as if she had been 
making her a A^ery delightful communication, — ‘^and if 
within that time 3*011 do not many, then there will be 
nothing left for us to do but to go to m3" relatiA^es and live 
on their charit3'. A pleasant outlook ! Do 3"ou still think 
that I am wrong in opposing the childish love stoiy that 
3*ou have just told me? ” 

Edith experienced a violent desire to protest against 
the humiliating adjective “ childish.” for it was not her Avay, 
with her mother, to pass over aiy^thing that displeased her ; 
but she controlled herself, and remarked A-eiy graA"el3' : 

“I should haA"e thought it Avrong if 3*011 had gwen me 
to a husband who belieA^ed that I was wealtly^ and 01113* 
learned too late that I had nothing.” 

That is another of 3*our romantic ideas ; but 3*011 
talk like an inexperienced child. Men, who Avant to get 
married, are well informed indiAuduals. You can be per- 
fectl3^ sure that Mr. Hale, as Avell as Mr. \Yelsh, when the3* 
proposed to 3^011, were well aware of the fact that the3" 
need not look for an3" dowry with you. But the3" loA"ed 
3*ou, and 3*011 will 3"et regret that you did not accept one or , 
the other of them. Your noble Mr. Midford, on the other 1 
hand. ...” 1 

Edith interrupted her : 

Do you mean to say, mamma, that he knows 1 ha\"e { 
no property? ” 1 

Of course that is what 1 say. He may have been j 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


31 


^ ill love with you for a few minutes ; but he is a calm, pru- 
j dent man, wdio knows the value of dollars and cents accu- 
j ratel3\ He has considered the matter, and come to the 
■ conclusion that an alliance, with 3^011 would be ‘ Povert3^ & 
j Co.’ Hence he has managed to escape from 3^our trap. 

! and in a veiy skillful wa3", evidentl3^, as he has contrived to 
i deceive 3^011 completel3\” 

; ‘‘I never laid any traps for 'Sir. Midford, and 3^011 are 

: doing him a cruel injustice.” 

! On the contrarv, 3^011 will realize that I am completel3’ 

in the right before 3^011 are much older. 0nl3' wait a little 
while! ” 

‘‘I am not impatient, mamma, but I ask 3’ou for leave 
to tell Mr. Midford sometime that I am not rich. You owe 
it to him to grant me this.” 

‘‘I owe nothing whatever to Mr. Midford, child! — 

! 3^our fine sentiments keep 3^ou fioating in a superterrestrial 
atmosphere! To speak candidl3", it does not . seem to me 
quite the thing for 3^011 to converse with a strange man about 
our pecuniaiy affairs. But if 3^011 expect to get any especial 
satisfaction out of it I will not forbid 3^011. But I should 
like to request one thing, — that 3'Ou will not act over- 
hastil3" .... wait a few da3^s, a week, a fortnight, until you 
have got over 3^our bad humor.” 

I am not in a bad humor ; and I will wait, as 3^0 u 
require, a fortnight, before I tell Mr. Midford.” 

“I have not required an3Thing, and if you were not 
out of temper 3’ou would not speak to me as 3^ou do. I 
expressed a wish, and I am very glad that you have acceded 
to it. . . . and now I will go and rest.” 

Mrs. Com3m arose and left the apartment. Taken all 
in all, she was satisfied. She had finally been able to give 
her daughter an explanation of certain circumstances 
which had now and then caused her an uneasy hour. 


32 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


Edith had received the unpleasant announcement that she 
was poor much more tranquilly than was to have been ex- 
pected. In her gratification at this fact ]Mrs. Com^m had 
almost entirely forgotten what Edith had disclosed in 
regard to her liking for Midford. When afterwards she 
recalled this confession to her mind, she said to herself : 
‘‘Edith is a sensible girl. She will not be so foolish as to 
encourage further the attentions of a Thomas Midford. 1 
almost regret that I did not tell her long ago that she is 
absolute!}’ obliged to marry money. Who knows? — per- 
haps if I had she might be Mrs. Hale or Mrs. AVelsh today, 
and I relieved from all my worries. Well, we have still a 
whole year before us, and during that time lots of water 
will run into the sea. I shall now be able to converse with 
Edith and advise her freely and without reserve. All will 
yet be well.” 

* * 

* 

Mrs. Comyn had felt a certain timidity in regard to 
explaining the pecuniary circumstances of the family to her 
daughter ; but after this explanation had taken place, she 
would have liked to discuss the future with Edith without 
constraint It made her uneasy to find that the latter did 
not refer in any way to the important and disagreeable 
announcement that had been made to her. Edith appeared 
to have forgotten the matter, and lived on tranquilly and 
self-contained. She was constantly thinking of Midford, 
but she mentioned him no longer. She looked for him in 
society, at the houses where they had formerly been in the 
habit of meeting ; her eyes continually sought him in the 
theatre and on the street, and she was very unhappy be- 
cause she could not discover him anywhere. A feeling of 
constant, tormenting unrest had taken possession of her ; 
there was a gnawing at her heart which deprived her of 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


33 


sleep and appetite, so that she became pale and ailing. 
Mrs. Comyn observed this with distress, but she did not 
have the courage to put any leading questions to her 
daughter. Edith had acquired the habit lately of gazing at 
her steadily and inquiringly, and Mrs. Comyn felt con- 
strained and ill at ease under her daughter’s eyes. What 
was it that she was looking for in her face so attentively? 

‘‘Mamma,” Edith remarked one day, “I intend to ask 
Mr. Midford to call on me tomorrow or the day after. A 
fortnight has passed since we have seen him.” 

“ Are 3’ou still thinking of that matter, my dear ? I 
confess frankly that I had completel}^ forgotten Mr. Mid- 
ford, and was in hopes that }"ou had done the same.” 

“I have not forgotten Mr. Midford.” 

“ Do not act without due consideration, dear Edith ! 
Deflect that the happiness of your whole life is at stake.” 

“Just because I have reflected I wish to act. Can 
3"ou accuse me of precipitation when 3^ou see how patientl}^ 
I have been waiting these two weeks? ” 

“I did not know that you were waiting. . . . Edith, I 
do not recognize you any more ! You are like another 
person ! From a sensible, intelligent, dutiful girl, you talk 
now like a morbid novel heroine.” 

“If a girl has to sell. ...” She hesitated and began a 
new sentence : “ If a girl has to marr}" for mone}^ if she is 
not to be considered a novel heroine, then I had rather be 
one than claim the honorable appellation of a sensible, 
intelligent girl.” 

“ The first duty of a girl is to be a good daughter .... 
How can 3^011 talk to me so? I have never wished for an3"- 
thiiig but 3^our happiness ! Is this the thanks for my love? ” 
Mrs. Com3ui prepared to shed a few tears. 

“I did not intend to grieve 3"ou,” answered Edith 
tranquill3^, without showing any emotion. “You need not 


34 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


fear that I shall offer m3" love to any man, whoever he mav 
be, and however much I ma}^ love him. You can be pres- 
ent when I speak to Mr. Midford.” 

“ As a favor to me, Edith, I beg 3’ou not to write to 
him!” 

“I cannot give you that promise. I have kept my 
word and waited a fortnight. You must now allow me to 
ascertain the truth in regard to Mr. Midford’s character. 
I onl}" wish to know whether he is worth}" of m}” respect 
or deserves }’our contempt.” 

Mrs. Com}m sighed deepl}" and left the room. An 
hour later she sent a servant to inquire of her daughter 
whether she wished to drive with her. Edith was ready, 
and soon afterwards the mother and daughter, seated in an 
elegant open carriage, were driving down the Champs 
El}^sees. As they were crossing the Place de la Concorde, 
they met an ancient cab, driven b}" a poorl}" dressed driver 
and drawn b}" a lean and limping apolog}’^ for a horse. In 
this sorr}"-looking vehicle Thomas Midford was seated. 
Mother and daughter both recognized him; he did not see 
them. He sat bent over and gazed meditatively into his 
hat, which he was holding between his knees and turning 
slowl}" with both hands. The old cab, the shabb}" driver, 
the miserable horse, the absent-minded passenger, — all 
together presented a forlorn whole. When it had passed, 
the eyes of the mother and daughter met. Mrs. Comyn 
nodded her head significantly, and added : What a future 
that promises I ” 

But Edith replied to this with a question : “ Poes 

Mr. Midford look as if he were intending to marry for 
mone}"? ” 

Mrs. Com}^ shrugged her shoulders impatientl}", 
leaned back in the luxurious carriage in her aristocratic 
way, and, without continuing the conversation, looked at 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


35 

the brilliant scene around them in the street. 

As soon as Edith returned home, she retired to her 
room to write to Midford. She composed a long letter to 
him, but tore it up as soon as it was finished, to write 
another, still longer. In this she made so many altera- 
tions and corrections, contrary to her usual custom, that 
she began to rewrite it again. Before she had finished this 
task, she was summoned to dinner. She locked the papers 
carefully away and appeared at the table, to her mother’s 
astonishment, without having changed her dress. During 
the entire meal she sat silent and abstracted, and soon 
after dinner she returned to her room to complete the 
letter she had commenced. Never in her whole life had a 
bit of writing given her anything like so much trouble as 
this letter; but she was well contented with her work 
when it lay at last finished before her. Her large, clear 
handwriting looked well upon the firm, handsome paper 
which she had selected from among many kinds of station- 
eiy with especial care; and her style, she considered, left 
nothing to be desired. She congratulated herself upon 
the sonorous ring of a few isolated, well-turned passages, 
which she read over to herself in an undertone. She 
destroyed two envelopes because the ‘‘E” in the word 
‘H^lsq.” was not quite to her liking, and at last she laid the 
completed letter, ready to send away, in one of the drawers 
of her bureau. 

The next morning she read the letter carefully through 
again, and suddenly she began to doubt in regard to cer- 
tain ideas which she had expressed so confidently the 
evening before. Was it becoming in her to give a strange 
gentleman — for, strictly speaking, what was Mr. Midford 
' more to her than a stranger? — unrequested, information in 
regard to her circumstances? The fortnight’s delay which 
; she had granted her mother would not expire till the fol- 


36 


HA\S, THE DREAMER. 


lowing ^Monday. She made up her mind to consider tl\e 
wliole matter again deliberately. On Monday morning, 
finall}", after she had reread her long letter so often that 
she knew it by heart, she destroyed it, took a sheet ot* 
ordinary note-paper and wrote a few lines in her most rapid 
penmanship : 

‘‘Miss Comyn’s compliments to Mr. Thomas Midford, 
and she begs him to be so kind as to call upon her this 
afternoon, between one and two.” 

Then she commanded her maid to accompany her, 
and, with the note in her hand, set forth to seek a comnih- 
sionaire herself, to whom she could give the letter to be 
carried to its address. In the hall she encountered her 
mother. 

‘‘Where are you going? ” the latter inquired. 

“I have a little errand to attend to,” Edith replied, “ 1 
shall be home again by breakfast-time.” 

Edith frequently went out with her maid, and Mrs. 
Comyn did not feel herself justified in offering any objec- 
tions to this early walk. 

Edith found a commissionaire in the immediate neigh- 
borhood of her home, at the corner of the Hue de Berry. 
She handed him the letter for Midford. 

“Wait for an answer,” she said; “I will be here again 
in an hour to get the reply.” 

The man looked at the address. “ I can be back here 
again in half an hour,” he remarked, “if madame wishes 
it, and if I am not obliged to wait too long for the answer." 

“Very well ! In half an hour, then; but punctually, 
so that I shall not have to wait. You will get a good 
pourhoirer 

The commissionaire hastened away, and Edith, after 
having looked at her watch, walked with a rapid step down 
the Champs Ely sees, followed by her maid. Arrived at 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


37 

the Rond point,, she looked at the clock. Then she turned 
i and retraced her steps, somewhat more slowl}^ than she 
had left, to the Rue de Berry. 

The messenger was already standing at his post. She 
recognized him at a distance and hastened towards him. 
The man saw her coming, raised his hat politely and then 
carefully took a letter from his pocket, which he presented 
to her. She started violently, for it was her own note that 
was handed back to her. To the questioning, troubled 
glance which she cast upon the commissionaire, he replied : 

‘‘ The gentleman left Paris the evening of day before 
3’esterday. He arranged ever3dhing completely before he 
went and did not leave his new address behind him. Let- 
ters that come for him are to be sent to Messrs. Edington 
; & Co.” 

Edith onl^" partially comprehended these words. A 
I peculiar, painful faintness came over her. She turned 
awa}^ without having uttered a word, and walked mechan- 
icall}^ towards her residence. As she was on the point of 
entering the house, she noticed that the commissionaire had 
followed her. 

‘AVhat do you want? ” she asked. 

‘‘Excuse me, madame,” the man replied, “My trip has 
not yet been paid for.” 

She opened her portemonnaie and handed him a small 
gold five-franc piece. 

“Where are the letters to be sent? ” she inquired. 

“To Messrs. Edington & Co., Rue de la Paix.” 

“Wait a few minutes. I will send j^ou down a letter, 
which 3^ou must carry at once to Mr. Edington. Bring me 
the answer here. You can keep what I have given you for 
both trips.” 

. The man thanked her, and soon after, with a letter to 
Mr. Alexander Edington, which the maid had given him, 


38 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


hastened awa}^ to the Rue de la Paix. Edith was pretty 
well acquainted with ]Mr. Edington, and had speedily made 
up her mind to request some information of him in regard 
to the sudden disappearance of his friend. She had there- 
fore begged him to call upon her in the course of the day. 
Any time would be convenient for her ; he could name any 
hour. The reply to her note was brought to her as she 
was sitting at breakfast. 31 r. Edington wrote that he 
would have the honor of pa3dng his respects to Miss 
Coimui at two o’clock. 

Mrs. Com^m frowned when this letter was brought 
into the apartment. Edith noticed it, but said nothing, 
however. She was anno^^ed with her mother, as she held 
her accountable for the fact that Midford had left Paris 
without having shown himself again at their house. 

After breakfast, which passed in silence, Mrs. Comyn 
remarked : “In case the letter you have just received is 
from Mr. Midford, and that he is to call upon 3^011, allow 
me to remind 3"ou that 3"ou 3"ourself invited me to ])e pres- 
ent during 3"Our interview with him. Besides, it seems to 
me onl3' proper, after what has taken place between 3’ou.” 

“This letter is not from Mr. Midford, and Mr. Mid- 
ford is not coming to see me. He has left Paris .... 3 011 
were right, mamma.... ” She smiled bitterl3"; but of a 
sudden she was obliged to cease speaking : tears were 
suffocating her voice. 

“ What is the matter? ” asked Mrs. Comyn uneasiH. 

“ He has gone. 1 shall never see him again ! Oh, 
how cruel 3^011 have been ! If I had not listened to 3"Our 
suspicions, if I had not waited weeks, I should have seen 
him again ! ” She covered her face with her handkerchief 
and wept. 

Mrs. Comyn, at the bottom of her heart, was much 
delighted to find that the man Avhose presence had caused 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


39 


I her so much uneasiness had left Paris. She was not wor- 
i ried by her daughter’s tears: ‘‘It will pass as it came," 
she thought. It was easy for her to say a few tender, sym- 
I pathetic words to Edith, and after she had done this she 
il left the room, as she was convinced that the young, girl 
li would console herself most speedil}" if left to herself. 

Alexander Edington made his appearance at two 
i o’clock precisely, with that delightful punctuality which 
distinguishes the dweller in a large city. Edith did not 
leave him a moment in doubt as to what she wished to 
I learn from him ; for as soon as she had welcomed him and 
he had taken a seat, she inquired whether he could tell her 
what had become of Mr. Midford. 

“He has returned to California.” 

“Do you know the reasons for his sudden departure? 
He did not even find time to sa}- goodb3"e to us.’’ 

“He did not lack plenty of time,” Edington rejoined, 
“ for during the last fortnight he has often sat with me in 
m}^ office, for hours at a time, doing nothing but drawing 
squares and triangles and shading them with great care. 
But I am not surprised that he made no farewell calls. 
Midford usuall}^ acts according to certain principles which 
he has invented for his own private use, during his leisure 
hours, and which he does not discuss with other people. 
He thought of you. I know that for a certainty. I know 
him quite thoroughly ; we lived together several 3"ears in 
California, and I know that he only speaks of those per- 
sons and things that interest him. He sits so silent and 
meditates .... then of a sudden he puts a question to me. 
This question is invariably connected with the subject of 
his profound meditation, and, as I am aware of this hict, 
I can alwa^^s calculate tolerabl}^ correctty what is going on 
in his mind.’’ 

“ And 3^ou think that he thought of us? ” Edith asked. 


40 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


“T)o not be surprised at my question. I will tell you 
why I ask it. Mr. Midford was, as you know, (iiiite a fre- 
quent visitor at our house during the last few months. 
Suddenly, about a fortnight ago, he stopped coming, and 
since then we have onl}^ seen him once, that is, day before 
yesterday, ^^ e drove past him ; he did not notice us. It 
seemed to me that he looked as if he were sick and de- 
pressed. So I sent this morning to inquire after his 
health, and thus I learned that he had left Paris.” 

Edith had made an effort to speak unconstrained ly. 
But from the manner in which her 3"oung and worldly-wise 
compatriot had listened to her, she saw that her efforts had 
not been crowned with especial success. Edingtoii lis- 
tened, that is, with great attention, and nodded his head 
from time to time affirmatively, as if to say : “Go on, you 
interest me” ; but upon his features there lay a peculiar, a 
not exactly friendly, a knowing smile, and Edith was con- 
scious herself that under the disturbing iiifiuence of this 
smile, she had lost her self-possession and changed color 
during the latter part of her little speech. 

Alexander Edington was silent for a few moments 
after Edith had spoken, then answering the thought that 
was occupying her principally, he said : 

“Yes: Midford thought a great deal about you, — I 
can certify to this on two occasions. Tlie first was about 
ten days ago, when I remarked to him casuall}’ that I was 
going to meet you that evening in your box at the theatre. 
He sat silent for awhile and then asked : ‘ What number? ’ 
‘Thirteen,’ I replied. ‘An unlucky numbeiv he rejoined. 
To which I again : ‘ I hope, nevertheless, to have a good 

time.’ He did not reply and soon took his departure. 
That evening he was in the theatre. He was sitting in the 
darkest parquet box, and I only discovered him accidents 
ally. He is usually no theatre-goer. I am not one of 


HANS, THH DREAMER. 


41 


those persons who take pleasure in causing other people 
unnecessary embarrassment; consequently I did not ask 
my friend the next morning what had taken him to the 
theatre ; but I was necessarily impressed by the calm way 
in which he listened, while I was telling him about the 
play, as if he were hearing something new. Then, a few 
1 da} s later, I informed him that I should see you during 
I the evening at the Sands’. The next day when he came to 
I see me, he inquired : ‘ How was it last night at the Sands’? ’ 
j ‘Lovely.’ ‘Who was there?’ I named over a dozen per- 
1 sons and, purposely, I did not mention your name. ‘ Were 
! the Comyns there? ’ he asked. ‘ Yes, they were there, too.’ 

•Did Miss Comyn dance?’ ‘No.’ ‘How did she look?’ 

I ‘Very cheerful, as usual.’ ” 

: “Do I always look so cheerful?” interrupted Edith 

impatiently. 

I Edington did not answer and continued his account : 

I “ • How was Miss Comyn dressed? ’ Midford inquired 

i further. I described your toilette, and then I added : 
‘Since when, Thomas Midford, have you been taking an 
interest in ladies’ dresses? ’ ‘Yes, yes,’ he answered mus- 
ingly, ‘ I take an interest, now and then, iii certain things 
that you don’t know about.’ ‘Among the rest, in Miss 
Comyn,’ I remarked. Thereupon he arose and said with 
extreme sadness : ‘ Alexander Edington, I wish I were 

already at the other end of the world.’ ” 

Edith cast down her eyes. Edington, as if he did not 
notice her embarrassment, went on : 

“ I should not have mentioned anything of this. Miss 
Comyn, if you had not made inquiries of me in regard to 
Thomas Midford; but as the young man in question is 
about my oldest and best friend, to whom I wish every 
! happiness, and whose suffering wounds me also, I will add 
I in conclusion, that. ... he loves you. ...” Edith started. 




42 HANS, THE HREAMER. 

Edington continued almost contemptiiousl}" : 

“ There is no danger in it now — he has gone.” 

“On a long and drear}' way.” murmured Edith 
musingly. 

“Yes, on a long and dreary way, a hard and a difficult 
one.” Edington spoke with greater emotion than he had 
ever before displayed in Edith’s presence. “How heavy 
his poor heart must be ! Miss Corny n .... pardon me .... 
Miss Corny n, if I had been in your place I would not have 
repulsed that man, I would not have let him go.” 

Edith looked up and, with tears in her eyes, said : 
“You are mistaken .... you are a true friend .... I did 
not repulse him ; I did not let him go. He has gone 
away without m}^ knowledge, against my wishes ! ” And 
suddenly she broke into tears and sobbed : “ Ah. if he 

were only back again ! ” 

Then Alexander Edington arose and, taking Edith’s 
hand, exclaimed with evident emotion : 

“ T have done 3^011 injustice in m3' mind ; but T do not 
regret it. I will make eveiy thing all right again ; you can 
rel}' upon me.” 

When Mrs. Com3'n returned about four o’clock from 
her usual drive, she was not a little surprised to find Mr. 
Edington, who she knew had come about two, still with 
her daughter. She was, however, not rendered iiiieas}' b}' 
this fact. Quite the contrar}' : Alexander Edington was 
not, indeed, so w'ealth}^ as JMr. Hale or ]VIr. Welsh, and not 
so aristocratic as the Marquis de Contades or the Yiscount 
de Beauchamp ; but he was a well-established, ambitious 
3'oung man, who alread}' possessed quite a handsome for- 
tune, and was generally considered as bound to rise to a 
high financial position in time. Mrs. Com}'!! wished him 
good day, and added that he was far too chaiy of his 
visits and that he must come and dine wdth them, quite en 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


43 


famille^ some day daring the week, an invitation of which 
the young banker promised to avail himself soon. 

After he had left, Edith retired to her room and 
began again to write ; but this time her pen flew over the 
paper, and before the mail closed that day, Mr. Edington 
received a thick letter which was addressed to “Thomas 
Midford, Esq., via New York,” and which Mr. Edington 
mailed that same evening. He, too, had been favored by 
3 Iiss Comyn with a few lines. They read : 

“Hear Friend, — Enclosed you will And the letter 
for Mr. JMidford. I have written it exactly according to 
your advice. It is to be hoped that 3^0111* mediation will 
benefit 3^our friend as well as myself Thanking you for 
your kindness, I remain 

Sincerel^^ and devotedl}" 3"ours, 

E. C.” 

Alexander Edington was a very bus}- and a veiy sys- 
tematic man. He made it a principle never to preserve a 
single unnecessary scrap of written paper, and his private 
letters were in most cases destro^^ed as soon as he had 
answered them or mastered their contents. But Edith 
Com^m’s little note, although it did not contain anything 
especiall}" interesting, was not onl}^ read by Edington with 
the greatest attention, but was then carefully refolded and 
placed in a drawer, which he afterwards locked, exactly as 
if it had been a ver^^ important and valuable document. 

* * 

* 

The Aullage of Blighton Bar, in the State of California, 
was indeed only a few months old ; 3^et, nevertheless, it 
had already attained to quite a respectable size. A few 
hundred miners made there, by the sweat of their brow, 
much more than their dail}^ bread, — they made enough, 
tliat is, to consume every da}^ in the way of food and 
drink, in the principal saloon of the place, twice to three 


44 


HANS, THE DRE A:\rER. 


times as much as an epicure of the highest order would 
have to pay for his board at Delmonico's in New York ; 
enough to sit half the night at the faro table and lose or 
win there hundreds of dollars as the case might be, now 
and then even thousands, at one sitting. 

The majority of the populace consisted of native-born 
Americans, old Californians, who had already lived in 
nobod}’ knew how many different ‘‘mining camps,” and of 
whom more than one had ere this amassed several hand- 
some fortunes, which they had lost again almost as rapidly. 
Mingled with them were some Germans, Irishmen and 
South Americans. Almost all were young, vigorous men, 
slow and decided in their movements, with tranquil, clear, 
fearless eyes, wdiose gaze was peculiarly slow-moving, as 
with people whom no one has a right to command, and 
who turn with placid composure when they are called. 

The stage from San Francisco arrived at Blighton Bar 
punctually every evening between the hours of six and 
half-past, and its arrival, as the event of the day, was 
always awaited, if with apparent patience, yet with great 
suspense, by a large crowd of miners. Avhose labors 
were at an end for the day. 

One sultry J uly evening the stage came in as usual at 
its favorite “tempo,” of which the inhabitants of Blighton 
Bar were almost as proud as the skillful driver himself, — at 
a furious gallop, that is — and drew up with admirable and 
admired precision immediately in front of the Post Office, 
namely, the principal saloon of the place. The driver, — a 
man with a broad, smoothly-shaven, serious visage, — threw 
the reins to a stable-boy, descended with some difficulty 
from his seat, divested himself solemnly of his right hand 
bright scarlet glove, and, without saying a word, shook 
hands with a few privileged friends who had drawn near. 
Tlien, with visible enjoyment, he emptied a large glass, 


HANS, THE ])REAMER. 


45 


filled with an ice-cold, foaming beverage, which had been 
handed to him respectfully, and at the same time famil- 
iarly, by a waiter who had come out from the saloon. He 
smacked his lips as if well pleased, took a square, gay- 
colored cloth out of his hat, wiped his mouth with it, and 
then said, casting a benevolent glance around, and, as if 
addressing everyone present — “ How do you do? ” Where- 
upon, without awaiting a reply, he stepped to the stage 
door. This had already been opened from within, and a 
solitary passenger had set foot upon the soil of Blighton 
Bar. The miners, the saloon-keeper and the waiter were 
all surveying him with undivided attention and some aston- 
ishment. What was that man doing in Blighton Bar? He 
did not look like any of them ; he did not seem like a man 
who could fight successfully the hard battle of life alone, — 
who could boldly strike in, boldly seize and boldly retain. 

The new-comer, a 3"oung man still in his twenties, 
with a thoughtful countenance, in which a pair of tranquil 
brown eyes were especially noticeable, looked like a city 
gentleman, and was dressed as such. He seemed some- 
what abashed by the ponderous gaze which the miners as 
it were hung upon his figure, following each one of his 
movements with a kind of curious listlessness, and tried to 
conceal his embarrassment by turning to watch the unload- 
ing from the stage of a not very heavy leather trunk and a 
few pieces of smaller hand baggage, as directed b}" the 
driver. After he had seen all his possessions gathered 
together at his feet, he finally" turned to the still intently- 
observing spectators, and, lifting his hat. and looking 
straight into the e^^es of the one who stood nearest him, he 
asked politel}- , in a low tone of voice : 

“Will you be so kind as to tell me where Mr. Heorge 
Warden lives? ” 

“Warden ! ’’ exclaimed the one addressed, half turning 


46 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


around, — Wanted ! ” 

A broad-shouldered giant, with bold, weather-beaten, 
northern features, who had been leaning carelessly against 
the door frame, his brawny arms crossed upon his breast 
and a stub pipe in his mouth, gave a slight push with his 
back against the door, so that, without a too gTeat expendi- 
ture of strength, he was able to assume a vertical posi- 
tion, and then stepped slowly forward, saying with quiet 
composure : 

“George Warden is my name.” 

The new-comer took a letter from his pocket, which 
he handed to Mr. Warden. The latter tore open the enve- 
lope, glanced through the contents of a short letter within 
in a few seconds, and said, extending his hand with an 
energetic gestui*e : 

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Midford. 
How are you? Come with me.” Midford, by a silent 
gesture, drew attention to his luggage. 

“Allow me to attend to that,” Warden observed. He 
turned to the bystanders and, beckoning to one of them, 
remarked pleasantly, but with the assured tone of a man 
who is not accustomed to asking favors in vain : 

“You will be so kind, Croker, as to see that these 
things are carried to my shanty.” 

“That’s all right,” replied the person addressed. 

George Warden knew what was the proper thing to 
do. “Now a glass for welcome, Mr. Midford,” he said cor- 
dially. ‘‘Be so kind as to name it.” 

Midford, who was by no means a stranger to Cali- 
fornia, replied with a polite gesture : “ Whatever you 

prefer, sir.” 

Warden called out something to the waiter, who there- 
upon, with great zeal and earnestness, proceeded to con- 
coct a drink, the preparation of which required the employ- 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


47 


j 

I merit of several glasses and various fluids, and then he 
I handed to each of the two gentlemen, who stood silently and 
I attentively watching him, a large glassful of a reddish 
I beverage. 

j ‘‘Grood, after a hot day,” Warden observed. He 
I touched his glass gently and carefully to Midford’s, and 
saluting him witli a wink, and at the same time a slight 
I inclination of his head, he added: ‘‘Yours!” 

I “Yours!” Midford replied. 

i Each thereupon emptied his glass : Warden his at 
one draught, with e3^es closed affectionately and a glorified 
smile upon his countenance ; Midford, with several brief 
intermissions, and not without turning somewhat red in the 
face, for wdiat he was drinking burned his throat like fire. 
Then both departed, shoulder to shoulder, with solemn 
tread ; Midford with his head bent forward, his hands 
behind him ; AVarden swinging from hip to hip, his thumbs 
in the wide leather belt that girded him loosely, in which a 
heav}" na\y revolver and a bowie-knife of immense size 
were hanging. 

The next day George Warden introduced his esteemed 
friend, “Mr. Thomas Midford, of New York,” to the most 
prominent members of the community of Blighton Bar, and 
in the course of the evening all those who wished to know 
learned that the new-comer had been most w^armly recom- 
mended to Mr. George AVarden by a letter from his old 
“pard,” Peter O’Connor, of AA^hite Pine, and that the former, 
Mr. George AA^arden, most respectfully requested his estima- 
ble and highly esteemed fellow-citizens to be so kind as to 
apply to him in case that any one of them, for any possibly 
imaginable cause, should wish to enter into any kind of a 
quarrel with Mr. Midford. It was already late when Mr. 
AA^arden slowly and solemnly, and with a somewhat thick 
utterance, delivered this last remark, so rich in adverbs and 


48 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


adjectives, accompan3dng it with many powerful blows of 
his fist upon the table ; and as it was well known that Mr. 
George Warden, at this time of night, did not bear con- 
tradiction mildly, and was in the habit of becoming some- 
what quarrelsome in general, several of those still remain- 
ing in the saloon hastened to shake hands in the most 
cordial manner with Mr. Thomas Midford and to assure 
him of their sincere friendship. 

During the next few days Warden was much occupied 
in observing and studying his new friend with attention, 
as occasion offered. One evening he addressed him as 
follows : 

‘‘You are not strong enough for mining; you have 
neither the eye nor the hand to run a faro-bank ; as a 
sheriff you would not manage the ‘ boys ’ ver}^ well, 
although I admit freely that you have no fear ; there are 
already two too many saloon-keepers in the place, a^ all 
the respectable citizens of Blighton Bar get drunk in the 
same saloon, the Post Office ; there is at present no de- 
mand for a preacher or teacher ; you have never learned 
any regular trade ; the public offices are all filled ; — What 
can I do with you, you young, helpless, interesting little 
orphan? You shall become a banker ; my banker and the 
banker of half a dozen reliable fellows that I will bring to 
you. Other customers will follow; and, as 3^011 neither 
play nor drink, as 3^011 have alread3' told me, — what do 
you do, an3^way, man, if you do not care either for the 
bottle or for cards? — then something ver3" strange will 
have to happen to prevent 3"our becoming the wealthiest of 
us all.” 

Midford raised a few objections. He had already 
made some inquiries. The banking business in Blighton 
Bar was not without its risks. “ I have only a ver3^ little 
money,” he continued. ‘‘If I should lose, I could not 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


40 


make it good.” 

Warden looked him over from head to foot, shrugging 
his shoulders and shaking his head : “ Have you come 

here to lose money?” he asked. “Young man, what sort 
of ideas are you inventing now? You do simply and sys- 
tematicall}" what your business brings you to do, and don’t 
worry yourself about anything further. What’s the use of 
borrowing trouble? Care is a bad bedfellow.” 

Midford was no match for his companion’s solid argu- 
ments, and yielded. During the next few days he com- 
plied with some simple formalities to which Warden drew 
his attention, and at the end of the week he rejoiced in the 
pleasant sensation that his house in Blighton Bar enjoyed 
the undisputed title of a “respectable firm.” His new 
business did not give him much to do : he had to write a 
few letters to the bank in San Francisco every day, to 
weigh and seal a few bags of “dust,” to write out a few 
receipts, now and then advancing money on them, and 
occasionally giving information in regard to the rates of 
exchange from San Francisco upon New York or London. 
During his hours of leisure he meditated and worried and 
dreamed, as was his way, or he made friends for himself, 
without intending to do so, among the miners — his cus- 
tomers and fellow-citizens — simply by conversing with 
them. He met Warden the most frequently, and varied 
and profound were the long conversations which they were 
in the habit of having together. 

Warden, by his quiet, unabashed questioning, had 
managed to get from Midford the outlines of his simple 
stoiy, and since then seemed to have conceived a kind of 
paternal, compassionate affection for his diffident, hesi- 
tating, awkward guest. He frequently conversed with him 
about that “girl in Paris,” whose name Midford had not 
mentioned, and whom he, for some inscrutable reason, had 


50 


HANS. THE DREA31ER. 


christened ^‘Jemima.” Midford was always ready to enter 
into conversation about the absent lady of his love, and 
therefore became more and more confidential with Warden. 
But while the latter in time came to know in detail all the 
particulars of Midford’s love affair, as well as his plans for 
the future. Midford had no suspicion as to whence his new 
friend had come, nor whither he was going. i)ne day, inci- 
dentally, — for he was not inquisitive — he addressed a few 
questions to Warden in regard to his past life : 

“Where do you come from, anyway?” he asked. 
“You talk sometimes like a professor of philosophy and 
quote the classics like a real litterateur. Where were you 
born? What schools did you attend? ” 

“ That, and other things like it, no one has ever been 
able to find out,” Warden replied, in his most listless man- 
ner. “ There are unexplained m3 steries in nature. AVhy, 
for instance, do pilots wear double-lined velvet vests biib 
toned up to their chin, when the}" come ashore in the 
glowing noontide heat? M}"steiy ! No one can explain it.” 

Midford was not curious to raise the veil from over 
the past of his friend and benefactor, lie made a depre- 
cating gesture with his hand, remarking as he did so, 
“Assume that I have not spoken”; and afterwards he 
never recurred to the histor}" of Warden’s life. 

One evening, in the latter part of the month of August, 
the mail brought a letter to Midford, which l)ore the post- 
mark “Paris,” among several others, whose original ad- 
dress, “New York,” had been crossed out and changed 
seA"eral times. The letter had been seeking the one to 
whom it was addressed at different places for months, until 
finall}" it had reached him. Midford recognized the well- 
known handwriting of his friend Alexander Edington upon 
the envelope. He opened the letter. The first thing that 
met his e}"es was a sheet of paper upon w"hich was nothing 


HANS, THE DREA3IER. 


51 


hut the line, ‘‘ My best wishes and congratulations ! A. E. 
Paris, 26, 5, 6.’* Then Midford saw a second letter, and 
his heart gave a great throb. 

‘‘ A letter from Jemima? ” asked Warden, who, stand- 
ing near Midford, had been observing him with his usual 
kindly and imperturbable attention. 

Midford made an assenting gesture, whereupon War- 
den turned away, apparentl}^ without further interest, so 
that the other could read his love-letter undisturbed. 

When the two met again in Warden’s shanty a few 
hours later. Midford’s countenance was beaming with joy. 

“You have received good news, I see,” said Warden. 

“The best that I could possibly wish for,” Midford 
replied. 

He drew Edith’s letter from his pocket, and reading 
portions of it here and there aloud, communicated to his 
friend the entire contents of the long epistle. 

Edith wrote that she had been painfully surprised b}^ 
Midford’s departure and that she had sought an explana- 
tion of this unexpected occurrence from Mr. Edington. 
He had considered it advisable to make certain communi- 
cations to her in regard to Midford’s sentiments for her, of 
which she could not speak further at present, but which 
she had involuntarily connected with what Midford had 
said to her during his last interview with her in Paris. 
She had by these means arrived at the conclusion that 
Midford, at that time, was in error regarding certain cir- 
pCLimstances affecting her personally. 

“You believed that I was rich,” Edith’s letter con- 
tinued : “I am not rich ; it seems, on the contrary, that we 
are about the same as penniless. My mother only recently 
informed me of this fact, and Mr. Edington believes that 
this piece of news will have an interest for you also. I do 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


not know whether he is mistaken in this or not ; at aii}’ 
rate, I have no cause to withhold the truth from 3^ou. 

“ I must write 3 on something else. It will be diffi- 
cult for me to do so, although at bottom it is 01113^ a very 
simple matter, namel3y to make 3^011 acquainted with 1113' 
opinion on a certain question which 3"ou touched upon. I 
hope confidently that you will not misunderstand me. 

“You said to me that a man who is poor, and has no 
prospect of becoming rich, would be acting ignominiously 
if he were to sue for the hand of a wealth3" girl. I think 
otherwise : — a man who loves ought to accept, with the 
girl, ever3dhing that she brings him, — riches as well as 
poverty. The same applies also to the woman, according 
to m3^ ideas : she should go to him whom she loves, if he 
WOOS her, unconcerned whether he is rich or poor. A girl 
who would hesitate to give an honest man her hand because 
he is poor, while she would grant it to him if he were a 
man of wealth, — such a girl cannot be good and cannot be 
noble. 

“These ideas have not recentl3" occurred to me, but I 
never found an opportunity to express them before to 3’ou. 
The thought that my silence in this respect may have been 
falsel3^ interpreted b3" you is painful to me, and for this 
reason I have determined to tell 3^^011 this now. 

“ Mr. Edington has volunteered to forward this letter 
to you. He tells me that 3^011 will receive it in the month 
of J uly, possibly even somewhat later, as he does not , 
know exactly where yon have gone from San Francisco. | 
In an3^ case, our mutual friend assures me an answer from | 
you can reach Paris b3" the beginning of winter — and we 
are now in the beginning of summer ! How far awa3" you 
have gone, Mr. Midford ! 

“ We shall go to Trouville or Biarritz during the hot 
weather, but after the middle of October we expect to be 


HANS, TIIH DREAMER. ' 53 

back in our old Quartier at Paris. With sincere wishes for 
3’oiir prosperity, I remain, Mr. Midford, your friend, 

Edith Comyn.” 

Warden had listened with the greatest attention, and 
sat lost in thought for awhile, when Midford had ceased to 
speak. Then he said in a low yoice : “ I was not written 

to like that.’’ Then he rubbed his forehead rapidly and 
yehementl}", passed his hand through his thick, brown 
hair, smoothing it down at the back of his head, and after 
he had in this mechanical way dismissed his fruitless 
thoughts of bygone times, he continued : 

‘ Wou are a lucky dog, Thomas Midford ! You hold the 
highest trump card in the pack — the loye of a good girl. 
If 3^ou do not win the game, it will be 3’^our own fault.” 

“What would ^^ou repl}" to this letter?” inquired 
Midford. 

“ You don’t know what 3^ou ought to repl}' to it ! ” ex- 
claimed Warden, amazed and indignant. “ Haye 3^ou no 
blood in 3'our veins, man? Are 3^011 a hundred 3^ears old? 
Must I tell 3^)11 what to write? Write!” And without 
giving his companion a chance to repl3', he continued with 
great precision, as if he were dictating : 

“ ^ M3" 01113^ and above eyer3dhing else beloved Jemima,’ 
— exclamation point ; ‘ 01113" ’ and ‘ aboi-e eveiything else ’ 
underscored; — ‘You can rely with confidence upon the 
fact that I — if the next steamer from New York to Liver- 
pool does not break down, collide with an iceberg, or go to 
the bottom in some other unforeseen and unaccountable 
wa3", and I thus prevented, b3" circumstances over which I 
have no control, from anfiving in Paris as soon as I would 
wish — that I will be b3^ 3"our side a week after this letter 
reaches 3"ou, and that, three weeks later, — that is, if the 
dela3" appointed 113" the law cannot be still further abbre- 
viated, — I hope to be able to clasp m3" beloved wife in m3" 


54 


HANS, tht: dreamer. 


arms. Your most grateful, faithfully and eternally de- 
voted Thomas Midford.’ Besides this letter a telegram 
with the following contents : ‘ Thousand thanks ! Letter 
and writer on the way.’ There, Thomas jMidford ! Any 
other or any better advice 1 cannot give you ; and whom I 
cannot advise I cannot Ix^lp ! ” 

Thereupon Mr. George Warden arose and, wdth a more 
rapid step than usual, mrde a bee-line for the saloon, 
where he at once swallowed two large glasses of his favor- 
ite drink and then began to play so recklessl}' high and 
with such unheard-of luck, that he broke the bank and i 
would have taken a fortune home with him if he had not 
shown himself so ready and indefatigable in giving liis 
revenge to an}" and every one who requested it of him. 
As it w-as, his pockets were still tolerably full w"hen he set 
out upon his wa}" home, after the break of day. 

Midford was awakened by Warden’s heavy tread when 
the latter entered the shanty where the two, comrade fasli- 
ion, had pitched their tent together. 

“Here!” said Warden gruffly, emptying his pockets 
upon the roughly-hewn table, — “here! I have won this 
for you. If you will not accept it outright, you can pay it 
back to me later. I do not need it and can wait till it 
suits you to give it back. I am nowhere better off than in 
Bligiiton Bar ; but you are in a hurry and must set out at 
once for Paris. Don’t WTite ; simply telegraph, and start 
tomorrow. Give my compliments to Jemima and bring ; 
her out here on your wedding tour. I am anxious to see j 
that phenomenon, a girl who can love a poor man when she | 
has her choice among a dozen rich suitors.” j 

^lidford replied irresolutely : “ It would not be lion- I 

orable in me to take you at 3"oiir word. You are excited 
now ; you might, perhaps, w4ien you came to think it over, 


HANS, THK HREAMEH. 


55 


regret what you now so generousl}' wish to do. We will 
talk it over tomorrow, when you are calmer.” 

“ Go to the deAnl with your honor and 3^our generosity 
and 3^our calmness ! Take it, I tell you again. Don’t 
let 3'our luck pass 3"ou by ! ” 

“It will not do. . . . not so quickly,” Midford rejoined. 
“Let me haA^e time to think it OA'^er.” 

“AYell, then,” said Warden angril}’, “Take time, hon- 
orable man ; sleep on it two or three nights ; turn it over 
thoroughly in your mind; argue out conscientious!}^ all 
the possible pros and all the possible cons, and then, too 
late, decide upon doing something that will not pay for 
the trouble of doing. God in HeaA^en ! — The man has the 
highest trump cards in his hand and he proposes to play a 
wretched little Ioav card, instead of sweeping the board at 
one stroke. It is now bright da^dight. You have pro- 
A'oked me out of all desire to sleep. I will go to work. 
Goodbye till we meet again ! ” 

Warden departed and left Midford to his thoughts. 
The miner’s fine speeches had done no good ; they had 
onl}" troubled Midford’s happiness and confidence. He 
moved, as usual, slowty through the camp, with head 
cast down, and thought and speculated until his brain 
was in a whirl. Warden’s money he would not ac- 
cept. “I cannot take it as a present,” he argued, “and 
neither ought I to borrow it.” He read Edith’s letter over 
and over again, until finally he found in it what was not 
reall}" there. Was it so certain that she loved him? Might 
she not have written simply in order to tell him that she 
was not such a contemptible creature as her silence might 
possibty have caused him to believe? How would she 
take a' letter that proceeded upon the supposition that she 
had declared her loA^e to him. Might he not wound her 


HANS, THPl HREAMHR. 


sn 

sensibly by so doing? No, he ought not to write to her in 
the way that Warden had advised. She was justified in 
expecting that he, Midford, should first sue for her love. 
He composed a long letter in his mind with wdiich he was 
well pleased. lie hastened into the shanty to write it, but as 
soon as he had taken the pen in his hand all the fine ideas 
and the elegantly turned phrases vanished from his mem- 
ory. He hesitated even in the superscription of his let- 
ter. At last it proceeded laboriously forward. Much 
that he wished to say he did not dare to express plainly 
and unmistakably. A peculiar diffidence prevented him 
from laying bare his inmost sentiments. There are per- 
sons who can write passionate letters in cold blood ; | 

others, though profoundly moved, grow cold during the i 
mechanical labor of writing, and confine themselves in 
their letters within narrow, formal bounds. Most persons 
are worse and colder than their letters ; a few are better 
and warmer. The perspiration of anguish broke out on | 
his brow as he wrote. He would have liked to cry ‘*1 love | 
3^ou ! ” but it was utterly repugnant to his whole nature to ^ 
place such words upon paper. 

He commenced b}^ thanking Edith for her letter. He 
did not venture to hint in any way that he applied to him- ; 
self the young girl’s remark that she considered it despica- 
ble to reject the hand of a poor suitor, simply because he 
was poor. He feared, if he did this, to wound Edith’s 
maidenly modesty, her womanl}' dignity. It was his duty 
to accept Edith’s observation literall}", that it was only a 
question of informing Midford of her opinion upon a cer- 
tain subject. But he allowed himself to say that now, 
having learned the fact that Edith was not rich, he had no 
longer aii}^ reason for not attempting to win her. Arrived 
at this point in his letter, he hesitated a long time. He 
wanted to offer Edith his heart and hand in plain terms. 


HANSi, THP. DREAMER. 57 

At last he found these terms. They read as follows, after 
long, laborious study : 

‘‘I do not know whether I have the right to beg you 
to cast in 3^our lot with mine, after 1 have candidly con- 
fessed to you that my pecuniary affairs do not justif}" me 
in giving you tlie firm assurance that your life with me 
would be pleasant and free from care, from a material 
point of view. But I must not consider this question too 
much, as I am afraid that I should finally be obliged to 
give it a negative answer, and it is ni}^ most fervent desire 
to avoid this. I must venture in order to win ; and in the 
hope of winning the highest prize in life for me, yourself, 
I venture to ask whether you will trust yourself with me. 
If 3^ou will do this, I shall have but one task in life— that 
of making you happy ; and if you can love me, I hope that 
I can succeed in performing this task. Be so kind as to 
let me have 3"our answer in New York, as I propose to 
leave here in a short time, and hope to be in Paris before 
the close of the year. Please remember me kindl^^ till 
then, and accept the assurance of my unswerving fidelity 
and devotion. 

Thomas Midford.” 

When Midford had corrected his long letter, and cop- 
ied it in his finest handwriting, he read it through again, 
and was not satisfied with the result of his labor. It was 
an honest, stupid letter, which he could have posted up on 
the Town Hall, without compromising Edith in the slight- 
est ; but he felt that he could not write anything else, or 
at least an3Thing better or warmer, so, resigned and dis- 
couraged, he carried his letter to the postoffice, after hav- 
ing enclosed it in a second envelope, addressed to his 
friend Alexander Edington. 

Suppose I had written a letter such as Warden dic- 
tated ! ” he thought to himself ^‘No! That I could not 


58 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


have done ! I cannot pretend to be dilferent from what I 
am ; and Edith must take me so, or reject me ! ” 

Warden, who was sitting on a bench in front of the 
postottice, meditatively puffing dense clouds of tobacco 
smoke into the clear, still evening air, gently clapped 
approval, as he saw Midford slip a letter into the box. 
Then he made his friend a signal to follow him, and, ris- 
ing, he walked slowly away from the saloon. 

“How did you write?” he inquired of Midford when 
the two had gone far enough away to be able to speak to 
each other unobserved. 

Midford readily replied ; but as he described it, he 
modified still more the tone of his letter, which had been 
none too enthusiastic at best. 

Warden sighed and stood still, surveying his com- 
panion from head to foot attentively, exactly as if he were 
seeing him for the first time ; then he exclaimed : 

“You cannot help it, that 3^011 have brown eyes ; 
neither is it your fault that, after all 3’our balancing and 
pondering, 3-011 never dare to do anything right, and there- 
fore will never win a prize worth having. One must take 
3-0U as 3^011 are ! ” 

“That is just what I said to myself,” Midford eagerly 
replied, “ and I put it to your conscience whether it is not 
better for the 3"oung lady to learn the truth now, than for 
me to give her the right, hy my silence, to reproach me 
later with having deceived her.” 

“Yes, 3-es; 3"ou are right! God forbid that T should 
argue with a man like 3-ou ! ” 

Warden walked on in silence at Midford’s side for 
awhile ; then he turned again to his companion : 

“ The disease that you are suffering from seems to be 
contagious, as I notice that in 3-our societ3- I, too, get to 
racking m3- brains. I have just been trving to make out 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


59 


the real cause of taking an interest in you, and I have 
found it out now. It is not exactly flattering to you, but 
I will not keep it from you : I care for you because I do 
not take the slightest pleasure in concerning myself about 
m3^self, and because, as I am constituted, it is a necessity 
for me to concern m^^self about something or somebody. 
Do 3^011 know when a man is old? It is when his own fate 
aflects him no longer, and when the thought of the past 
renders him indiflerent for himself and soft-hearted for 
others. I am an old man.” 

‘‘ You ! ” exclaimed Midford in amazement. 

“ Yes ; that is, judging by the S3unptoms I have just 
been describing. You are still in 3'our salad da3’s, Thomas 
Midford. If 3^ou should ever grow old, you will then And 
out that all 3"our h3"percritical reasoning, 3"our honorable- 
ness, was nothing but 3^outhful egotism. If it had been 
possible for you to have concerned 3"ourself a little less 
about 3^our blessed self, 3^011 would have taken into consid- 
eration toda3" what 3"ou owe that girl in Paris ; but in fact 
3^011 onl3^ racked 3^our brains about the possible unpleasant- 
nesses that might arise for 3^011 if 3-011 should act somewhat 
audaciousl3-. You were far more afraid of the reproaches 
that Jemima might make 3-011 some day, than that she 
should become unhapp3^ through 3-011. I am sorrv, Thomas 
Midford, to have to rob 3-ou, perhaps, of some of 3-our 
cherished illusions, but I cannot help telling 3-ou that from 
sheer honest3- and timidit3- 3-011 are more cowardly- and 
selflsh than 3-011 imagine to 3-ourself, or than I would have 
believed possible.” 

All this was grist to Midford’s mill. He did not repel 
the accusation, but rubbed his forehead and said : 

“yer3- likel3- 3-ou are right. I am a useless, weak 
creature. I have never accomplished an3-thing in particu- 
lar, and I know that I never can do an3dhing great .... 


60 


HANS, THE HREAMER. 


Hence it must be my endeavor at least not to injure 
others.” 

He spoke with such resignation that Warden would 
have liked to recall what he had said. He wanted to bring 
^lidford into a less dreary train of thought : 

“Don't go to creating new anxieties for 3"ourself,'’ he 
said. “We are, once for all, just what we are. You have 
brown eyes and a worrying disposition. It is just as im- 
possible for you to give yourself a light heart as to change 
the color of 3’our e^^es. Now, ^^ou onl}' worr}^ for yourself 
— just because 3"ou are 3"oung. In a few 3'ears you will 
worr3" for others. Care is life.” 

“An old friend once told me that a life full of cares 
was more endurable than an empt3’ life,’’ interrupted 
Midford. 

“Your old friend was right. When vou write to him 
give him George Warden’s compliments.” 

“He died long ago.” 

“That will also happen to me some day. In the 
meanwhile I shall continue to waste m3' life in Blighton 
Bar with drinking and gambling ; and whatever I can 
spare be3'ond and in spite of this, in the wa3^ of caring for 
an3^ one, that I will present to 3'ou.” 

He was silent for a long wliile and then said : “ As a I 

favor to me, I want 3'ou to accept that mone3' I offered 3 011 f 
earl3' this morning.” 

“Thank 3'ou,” Midford replied with evident emotion, 
“but be consistent and take me as I am. Let me have 
time to think the matter over.” 

Warden shrugged his shoulders, but gave no other 
sign of impatience. He emptied the short wooden pipe 
which he had smoked out, by knocking it against the heel 
of his boot, and replied : 

“Suit 3' ourself, Hans, the ])reamer ! ” 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


61 


Wh}', years ago that was my nickname ! • How did 
you happen to come across it? ” 

^‘Because you deserve it, young man.” 

During the next few days Midford occupied himself 
almost exclusively in aiTanging his money matters. It 
had become apparent that the banking business established 
under Warden’s protection promised to yield in time a cer- 
tain secure income. Midford’s chief creditor resided in 
New York. ^ He wrote to him with the request that he 
would send a reliable and capable man to Blighton Bar 
who could represent him, Midford, during a protracted 
absence. The creditor, Mr. Simmons, was quite willing to 
aid Midford in his attempt to discharge his obligations to 
himself, and sent to Blighton Bar a Mr. James Cope, who 
had shown himself both intelligent and honest in Mr. Sim- 
mons’ office, to take charge of Mr. Midford’s business 
temporarily. 

My. Cope presented himself before his new principal, 
Mr. Midford, in the early part of the month of October, 
and was introduced by the latter to George Warden, who, 
it is unnecessary to say, had previously been consulted, and 
Iiad promised to extend the favor of his continued protec- 
tion to Midford’s representative. Cope was then instructed 
by Midford and Warden, and introduced by them to the 
patrons of the bank ; and not until all this had been care- 
fully looked after, with zeal but without undue haste, was 
^Nlidford read}^ at last to carry out his plan of returning to 
Paris, full}^ six weeks after the receipt of Edith’s letter. 

' When he stood before Warden, ready to l)id him good- 
bye, dressed in the old gray traveling suit in wdiich he had 
arrived at Blighton Bar, the miner was visibly affected. 

“We have been together only three months, in fact,” 
he said, “but I have seen more of 3'ou than one usuall}' 
sees of his best friends in three years in the city, and I 


62 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


shall miss ^ I shall feel perfectly alone when 3^ou have 
left. Keep a good place in 3^our memory" for me, and let 
us see 3^011 here again as soon as convenient. If ever3'- 
thing goes well with 3^011, I shall rejoice with 3’'ou ; and if 
your afiair does not turn out as 3 ou wish, then in 3^0111’ 
trouble 3'ou will find a true comrade in me. Do not be too 
much chagrined if luck should 1)6 against 3^011. Ten 3^ears 
hence it will be all prett3^ much the same, however things 
ma3" have gone in their time ; so it is sensible to take 
them quietl3" right from the start.” 

He looked around in the shant3\ ‘‘ I should like to 
give 3’ou something to take with 3^011 to remember me 1)3 
he continued, “ 01113' I cannot find an3'thing that 3'ou could 
use or that would give 3'ou pleasure. These little orna- 
ments” — he pointed to his revolver and knife — “would 
not help 3'oii to make a show in Paris. But I will at least 
do one thing to prove to 3'ou, for good and all, that I count 
upon not being forgotten by 3'ou, even without an3' 
reminders on m3' part.” 

He took a piece of paper, covered with writing, from 
the large pocket-book that he was in the habit of carrying, 
and tore it into man3' small pieces. 

“That is your note,” he observed, smiling well-pleased. 
“ It took a great deal of pains to force the mone3' upon 
3'ou, and 3'ou took a great deal of pains in composing that 
model document in which 3'ou acknowledged 3'ourself my 
debtor. There go pains and work and document ! ” 

He tossed the scraps of paper into the air, and 
watched them fluttering hither and thither until the3' set- 
tled upon the floor. “ There 3'ou see the use of worr3'ing. 
Now 3'ou are m3^ debtor, verball3' alone. So I have had 
m3' own wa3' after all.” 

Midford looked at him in consternation. At that 
moment the waiter from the saloon came hurr3'ing in and 


1 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


63 


announced that the stage was on the point of starting. 
The driver had already drawn on his left glove. Midford 
had not a minute to lose if he did not wish to be left in 
Blighton Bar. He pressed his friend’s hand in silence 
and hastened away. But the great strong Warden threw 
himself upon his bed, his face turned to the wall, and 
when he heard the driver crack his whip he covered his 
ears with his hands and groaned aloud. 

* * 

* 

The fashionable world of Paris had not as yet entirely 
returned to the capital ; but several salons, especially those 
of the foreign colonies, had already opened their doors 
again, and old acquaintances, who had not seen each other 
during the summer, were meeting in them, cordially greets 
ing each other after the long separation, and mutually 
relating what had befallen them at the watering places and 
in the country. Everyone seemed delighted that the vaca- 
tion had passed at last, and that winter, with its fatiguing 
round of pleasures, stood again at the door. It was in the 
early part of the month of November. 

Mrs. Comyn and her daughter were already settled in 
Paris. They had spent part of the summer at Trouville 
and had enjoyed themselves very much there in the soci- 
ety of Mr. Alexander Edington. Their amiable compatriot 
had dined with them every day, taken long walks and 
drives with the mother and daughter, and, not unfre- 
quentl3% had conversed with Edith for hours at a time. 
The shrewd Mrs. Com^m thought that she knew what the 
young people wished to talk about, and had not made it a 
difficult matter for them to see each other alone. One day 
towards the end of September a telegram had recalled 
Edington to Paris, and from there he had written to Mrs. 
Comyn that important business interests made it necessar}^ 


64 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


for him to start without delay for New York. He recom- 
mended himself to the friendly remembrance of both the 
two hidies, and hoped to see them again in Paris at the 
beginning of November. 

This letter disconcerted Mrs. Com3m exceedingl}", for 
she had reckoned with certainty that Mr. Edington would 
declare himself” before their return to Paris ; but she 
was a woman who knew how to put a good face on a bad 
matter, and accommodated herself to the ineAutable ; so 
that when she handed her daughter the letter from Paris 
she restricted herself to the remark, “ It is a pity that now 
we are left to our own resources, until the end of the 
season.” 

Edith had carelessly replied : ‘‘ Yes, it is a pity.” But 
Trouville seemed to have lost its charm for her, and when, 
soon after, ^Irs. Com3m inquired whether she felt inclined 
to return to Paris, she had replied in the affirmative with- 
out hesitation. It was now a fortnight since mother and 
daughter had again taken up their residence in the little 
hotel on the Champs El3^sees. There, one morning, the3' 
each received a communication from Alexander Edington. 
The letter to 31 rs. Coimm simply announced that the 
writer, having brought his ])usiness in New York to a suc- 
cessful conclusion, expected to leave America within a 
week. 

‘M hope soon after that to see 3’ou in Paris,” the letter 
concluded, “and I hope to be welcomed there b}" 3^011 with 
the same kindness that you showed me during our com- 
mon sojourn in Trouville. It will alwa3S be my most 
earnest endeavor to remain worth}- of 3 our friendship.” 

Mrs. Com}-!! smiled in a satisfied manner when she 
had read this letter. Young Americans are not, as a gen- 
eral rule, ver}^ lavish of their communications, especiall}^ 
to elderl}- ladies ; and 31 rs. Com} !! said to herself, that as 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


65 


Mr. Edington wrote to her so courteously, it was probably 
owing to the fact that he still had some favor to ask of 
her. As to the nature of this favor Mrs. Comyn had 
not a doubt. The letter to Edith read as follows : 

31 Y DEAR 31iss Comyn : 

Your mother, to whom I have just written, will tell 
you that 1 hope to be in Paris a week after this letter. 

I will now proceed to tell 3 ’^ou, in accordance with our 
agreement, what I have been able to learn here in regard 
to our friend Thomas 3Iidford. He only remained a few 
da^’S in New York, and then left for California. Then he 
seems to have lived in San Francisco a few weeks and 
afterwards in Sacramento. No one could tell me anything 
(*ertain upon this point, as 3Iidford had only written a 
single letter to my friends, and that in the month of July, 
to inform them that he was settled in Blighton Bar. Your 
letter must have certainly reached him, for the head of our 
house tells me that he remembers forwarding to our agent 
in San Francisco a letter from me to Thomas Midford, and 
having instructed the agent later to forward the letter to 
Blighton Bar. If I am not deceived in my calculations, 
you could already have received Midford’s reply. 

•Hn regard to the health and spirits of our friend, I 
have not been able to ascertain anything of interest. Tlie 
head of our house here informs me that Midford called 
upon him one day, and remained a full half-hour ; but he 
did nothing during this time but glance over the news- 
papers, and onl}^ as he was leaving did he remark, quite 
incidental!}", that he was going to San Francisco and would 
write from there to give his new address. He waited six 
weeks before doing this. He appears from this hardly to 
have counted upon anyone’s writing him from Paris ; at 
any rate, he did not manifest any impatience to receive 
letters from there. I am almost inclined to be angry with 
him when I find how calmly he has acquiesced in his fate. 

‘'1 have often thought of our sojourn in Trouville. 
The days which I spent there with you were the most 
charming of my w"hole life, and I can never forget them. 

Your sincere and devoted friend, 
i “Alexander Edington.” 


66 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


p]ditli perused the first part of this letter with great 
tranquillity, but the blood rushed to her cheeks as she read 
the last few lines. She went to her room and weighed 
every word of this brief extract. The remainder of the 
letter did not appear to interest her. Only one other pas- 
sage engaged her attention equally, — that in which Eding- 
ton wrote as if blaming his friend, to a certain degree, that 
^lidford did not seem to have expected an}" communica- 
tions from Paris, and that he had acquiesced in his fate 
with complete resignation. 

For some weeks now the thought of the letter which 
Edith had written to Thomas Midford had become a pain- 
ful one to her ; but until now she had not dared to confess 
this even to herself Now she acknowledged candidly to 
herself that she regretted having written the letter; and 
she was provoked with Edington that he had abetted lier 
in doing so. Like a delightful hope, the idea dawned 
upon her that what she wrote might have been lost. How 
otherwise was it to be explained that Midford had not yet 
sent a reply? But then suddenly her mind reverted to liis 
departure from Paris. He had left without bidding his 
friends goodbye, and Alexander Edington had told her at 
the time that Midford was accustomed to act according to 
certain principles which he had invented for his own 
private use ; one need never be astonished at anything he 
did or left undone. Midford’s image rose iq) ])efore her 
mind. How changed it was ! What could it have been 
that pleased her in that insignificant, silent man? Her 
mother had had a clearer vision. She had seen him as he 
was in reality, — awkward, bashful, peculiar, and .... tire- 
some. She recalled the two last interviews they had had 
together. He had delivered a philosophical discourse on 
consistent and inconsistent courtships. He was, without 
any question, a good, honorable man. She wished him 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


07 


every happiness. She wanted to look up to the man of 
her choice ; he ought to be a support for her. Midford? — 
Slie felt herself stronger than he. If some misfortune 
were to overwhelm them both, it would be her part to com- 
fort him, — to be a support to him. She made a repelling 
gesture with her hand, as if to drive away a disagreeable 
image, and another figure appeared suddenly before her 
mind, — a man, young, strong, decided, no dreamer, a man 
of rapid action. “The woman who has the right to lean on 
Alexander Edington’s arm can go through life tranquil 
and secure.” She sighed, but she was not sorrowful. One 
moment a sensation of remorse at her fickleness came over 
her. Was it not wicked and false in her to be ready now 
to give her heart to him whom she had first learned to like 
as Midford’s friend? But it was her reason alone that 
propounded this quer}’ ; her heart did not concern itself 
about it. She had l)een mistaken when she assumed that 
she loved Midford. Was she obliged to voluntarily do 
penance for this mistake, to sacrifice her happiness to him? 
Her happiness was paramount to ever^^thing else. What 
was Midford’s fate to her? She felt herself at liberty to 
love another; she did not 3^et know whether she would 
love another, and the moment had not 3^et arrived to sound 
ij this thought; but one thing she could and would make 
I (piite clear to herself : Midford, the Dreamer, she loved 

i no longer ! 

^ She went around engrossed in her own thoughts the 
I whole day long. In the evening she accompanied her 
I mother to a party, where she met numerous acquaintances, 
I'among them a wealthy young Frenchman, who had sued 
■ for her favor the preceding winter, and, since then, having 
I seen that his courtship would be unsuccessful, had some- 
ilwhat avoided her society. Something peculiar in her 
I appearance this evening seemed to attract him again. He 


68 


HANS, THE DREAxMER. 


approached the young American lady and said something 
flattering to her in regard to her loveliness : “You look 
absolutely transfigured this evening.” 

He waited then with some timidity to see what im- 
pression his “transfiguration” would make upon Edith, 
for well brought up young gentlemen rarely venture to 
flatter young ladies as strongly as most of them are able to 
bear. But the “beaut}"” smiled pleasantly, and looked so 
encouragingly at him that the old hopes suddenly came to 
life again in the breast of the enamoured young man. He 
went on with great fervor, and, as Edith did not reply, he 
became involved in long, beautiful sentences, not easily 
followed, until, to his intense mortification, he noticed that 
Edith, although smiling, and more “transfigured” than 
ever, was not listening to him at all. He withdrew, there- 
fore, in a very bad humor ; but Edith sent such a cordial 
glance after him, that he asked himself whether the young 
girl’s mind could be altogether sound. 

Mrs. Corny n and her daughter retired early. Edith’s 
maid, a loquacious Frenchwoman, assisted her mistress to 
disrobe. When she had loosened the long, soft hair, and 
it had fallen like a golden net over the fair young shoul- 
ders, the maid fell back a step and exclaimed : 

“ Nobody but me has any idea how lovely inadem - : 
oiselJe really is ! ” 

Edith blushed to her very forehead. | 

A few days passed away. No letter from Midford, i 
And one afternoon, sooner than Edith had ventured to 
hope, Alexander Edington’s card was unexpectedly brought 
in to her. Mrs. Corny n had gone out ; Edith was alone in 
the drawing-room. She remained seated as if rooted to ! 
her chair. The book she had been reading escaped from 
her hands, and in joyful astonishment, but at the samej 
time with some anxiety, she gazed speechlessly at her 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


69 


friend as he entered the room. Alexander approached 
her with a rapid step. The twelve days of ocean travel 
had bronzed his features, and his clear eyes shone upon 
her bright and resolute. As soon, however, as he remarked 
Edith’s embarrassment, he also appeared confused, and 
extended his hand to her with some hesitation. She laid 
her hand in his, but he hardly ventured to press it, and 
relinquished it at once. Then he took a seat. After a 
brief pause Edith broke the silence. She inquired after 
the particulars of his trip from New York to Paris. 
Edington replied to this with unwonted fluency of speech. 
He told about the weather they had had during the pas- 
sage, the society and attendance on shipboard, — all sorts 
of things, that did not concern him in the least, and which 
he knew were matters of perfect indiflerence to Edith also. 

I Midford he did not mention. When he had finally brought 
I his detailed account of the journey to a close, he stopped, 

I and then, after an embarrassed pause, inquired in an 
I entirel}" different tone, slowly and diffidently, whether 
; Edith had received his letter from New York. 

! She nodded affirmatively. 

I And has Midford written to you? ” 

“No.” 

“That is exceedingl}^ strange.” 

Edith repeated these words. “Perhaps he did not 
receive my letter,” she added, musingly. 

This time Edington repeated Edith’s last words. The 
two 3"Oung people who had alwa^^s had so much to say to 
each other in Trouville now appeared suddenly to have 
become extraordinarily taciturn. 

“1 hope that he did not receive it,” said Edith at last. 
She uttered these few words firmly and rapidl3\ Eding- 
ton rejoined in a low voice : 

“ Wh}" do 3^011 hope that. Miss Com3ui? ” 


70 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


The young girl blushed suddenly : “ Because I am 

ashamed of having written the letter,” she exclaimed pas- 
sionately, “and because I am provoked with you, Mr. 
Edington, for having induced me to write it. You allowed 
3"ourself to be influenced b}’' 3"our friendship for Mr. jVIid- 
ford in ^^our estimate of him. You have since written to 
me 3 ourself that he resigned himself calmh^ to his fate, 
and that he did not at all expect to receive anv letters 
from Paris. And isn’t it very humiliating, under these 
circumstances, for me to have — to have ” 

She was unable to continue, and turned awa3" from 
Edington with an impatient movement. The latter was ob- 
serving her from one side, and saw her raise her right hand 
and cover her eyes with the handkerchief she held in it. An 
intense emotion overpowered him. He arose (juieth" and 
stood before Edith. He drew her hand awav from her face, 
and as she cast a fleeting glance of reproach upon him, 
from e3^es brimming with tears, he said pleadingi3' : 

“Miss Com3m .... do not be angr3^ with me ! ” But 
now her tears burst forth and she began realh’ to weep. 
He still held her hand firml3\ Slie had drooped her head 
and was sobbing softl3\ She was one of those rare per- 
sons who are not disflgured b3^ tears. She looked inex- 
pressibl3' pathetic in her grief He felt drawn to her witli 
irresistible power. His mouth approached her lovel3" head 
and suddenh^ his lips rested upon her warm forehead. She 
drew back affrighted. Then with an uncontrollable im- 
pulse he kissed her lips. Instantaneously the blood rushed 
to her cheeks ; but she did not repulse him, and her arms 
softly rested upon his shoulders. 

“M3^ darling Edith,” he wliispered. At this moment 
the heav3' front door below was closed so violentl3^ that 
the ciystal pendants in the chandelier resounded. 

“M3' mother,” murmured Edith. 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


71 


He stepped back and looked expectantly toward the 
door, but it did not open. He listened a half-minute 
longer, and, as the silence continued, he said in a low tone : 
“I will return this evening. Au revoir^ Edith .... m}’' 
beloved Edith ! He would have embraced her again, but 
she turned her glowing face away from him and extended 
her hand. He kissed it reverently and left at once. She 
stepped to the window and watched him leave the house 
and hasten away down the Champs Elysees. She gazed 
after him with joyful pride. She remembered having- 
observed Midford as he stole awa}- from the house after 
his final interview with her. Alexander Edington walked 
with a light, elastic step. Yes, that was the way a man 
should walk who had won a great prize ! Thank Heaven 
that she was free from Midford ! Alexander had not tor- 
mented her with philosophical discourses. He had kissed 
her and made her his own. That was love ! She still felt 
his kiss ; it seemed to burn her lips, and she moved them 
as if to return it. 

She stood for a long time at the window. The lamps 
were being lighted along the avenue. A servant entered 
the apartment with a lighted lamp. Only then did she 
awake from her delicious reverie. She sighed gently and 
went to her room to change her dress for dinner. So now 
her life was decided ; she had made her choice ! How 
beautiful everything was ! 

The thoughts which crossed one another in Alexander 
Edington’s mind as he hastened away were not of so purel}' 
l)lissful a nature. An indescribable rapture, never before 
Bxperienced, warmed his heart ; but he heard an accusing 
voice, speaking as if from a great distance, indistinct, 
perceptible, and 3'et torturing. It became louder, 
listinct, and suddenl}" said to him, quite audibly : 
have betrayed vour friend.’’ “Nonsense!” he 


72 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


answered aloud. But the reproaching voice would not be 
silent : “ Alexander Edington, you have l)etra3’ed your 

best friend. He would have treated 3 ou differentlv, more 
Wally than 3^011 have treated him.” 

* * 

* 

With tears of delight and a throbbing heart, Mrs. 
Com3m had given her consent to her daughter’s engage- 
ment to Mr. Edington. The long desired and expected 
event had occurred exactly at the right time. In a few 
months the extravagant lady, spoiled by her luxurious 
habits, would have been obliged to give up her establish- 
ment in France, for lack of means, and return to America 
to live with her relations. She did not see quite clearh^ 
how she could avert this unpleasantness even now, for she 
herself would not become an3" richer than she had been 1)3' 
her daughter’s marriage, but she continued to hope that 
she could still remain in her beautiful Paris. She had 
candidl3^ told Mr. Edington that she could only give her 
daughter an exceedingl3^ modest outfit, and Alexander had 
received this communication with perfect indiflerence. 
‘‘Let us not speak of that at all,” he had said. 

Americans prize money very highl3", l)ut there are 
mail}' among them who prefer to earn their own fortune, 
rather than allow it to be presented to them by their wives. 
They are willing to pa3^ a high price for display, and a 
beautiful wife, of whom the3^ can be proud, seems to them 
an extremely desirable, though correspondingly expensive, 
article of luxur3^ 

The engaged couple appeared happy. Alexander dined 
every day with his prospective mother-in-law, and spent 
every evening in the society of his betrothed. Mrs. Comyii 
troubled the young people very little, and they were able 
to tell each other reciprocally all that their hearts con- 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


73 


tained. They always liked to be alone, for they had many 
things to tell ; but they were not quite satisfied with each 
other, and several times Alexander left his fiancee in a 
gloomy frame of mind, while the latter retired to her room 
in an ill-humor. The cause of this periodically-recurring 
discord between the two was Thomas Midford. Edington 
had not been able to refrain from speaking of him and 
hinting that lie reproached himself for not having treated 
his friend any too well. Edith had been very much dis- 
pleased at this, and, after that day, it was she who turned 
the conversation again and again upon the absent one. 

“You look out of humor again today,” she would ob- 
serve to Edington. 

“ I am not, my dear child. I have had a great deal to 
do and I feel somewhat depressed. That is all.” 

“I am sure you have been thinking again of your 
friend.” 

“Indeed you are mistaken.” 

“You think more of him than you do of me.” 

“ That I do not, dear Edith ! ” 

“ It would be very wrong of you. I want to be every- 
thing to you ; Midford ought to be nothing.” 

“ He w'as my friend. I should like to be able to call 
him that still.” 

“ There, you see ! I am right : you regret what 3^011 
have done.” 

And then would come tears and reproaches. Alex- 
ander would sigh in reply. He always consoled himself 
and comforted Edith, in conclusion, with the thought that 
his relations to Midford would be completely cleared up 
within a few weeks. He had written to the latter at 
Blighton Bar and announced his engagement. 

“ When I have once talked it over with him, then the 
matter will be done with,” he said. “I know myself : I 


74 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


am only provoked about a loss until I have paid it up. I 
regard Midford now as an unpaid creditor. When I have 
settled up my account with him, the thought of him will 
no longer disturb me. Patience, then ! The main thing is, 
that we love each other.” 

The 3^oung people then became reconciled to each 
other, as a rule, without having actually quarreled ; but a 
certain dissatisfaction remained with both of them after- 
wards. Edith began to conceive an openly" expressed aver- 
sion to Midford, the disturbing element in her happiness. 
Edington, it is true, felt his vanity flattered b}^ being loved 
so jealously b}^ the girl of his choice ; and 3^et, on the 
other hand, Edith’s conduct seemed to him petty, unjust, 
and woman-like. 

When, as he was turning the pages of “Hamlet,” one 
da\^, he came to the passage, “ Frailty, th}' name is 
woman ! ” he laid the book meditativety aside, stroked his 
beard and said: “Yes, that is true!” But he loved 
Edith, and the idea of giving her up never occurred to him 
for one moment. He only said : “ It is a pity that Mid- 

ford should have taken a fanc^^ to Edith. Besides, the 
two would not suit each other at all. The}^ would have 
l)een unhappy if the}" had married.” 

He could prove logically to himself that he had done 
Midford a service in a certain way, b}" taking his place 
with Edith ; but still, in his heart that inconvenient voice 
of reproach would not be silenced, — “ Alexander Edington, 
you have betrayed 3"our best friend ! ” 

Such thoughts never entered Edith’s mind. Thomas 
Midford was nothing more to her. She would have shed 
no tears to his memory if the news of his death had been 
brought her. He was dead to her. It vexed her to think 
that to Alexander he still lived, and that his shadow often 
intruded itself between him and her. 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


75 


One da}' Edingtoii ^appeared at an earlier hour than 
usual at the home of his betrothed. As soon as he had 
greeted her he handed her a letter. It was the one which 
Midford had written with so much solicitude, and to which 
he had requested a reply sent to New York. The letter, 
addressed to Edington, had arrived in Paris soon after his 
departure, had been sent after him to New York, where it 
had also missed him, and had now returned to its original 
destination, Paris, after weeks of wandering upon the ocean. 

Edith opened the letter without any emotion, and 
read it through calmly from beginning to end. Then she 
handed the letter to Edington, with a smile that seemed 
hateful to him. He glanced through the written pages in 
a few minutes, and then gave it back to Edith, saying as 
he did so, “Poor fellow ! ” 

“A poor fellow, indeed!” Edith repeated; but the 
word “poor” sounded scornful and contemptuous in her 
mouth, while Alexander had uttered it with evident 
compassion. 

“The letter is old,” Edington continued. “It would 
be of no use to send an answer to it now to New York.” 

“I should not have ansvv^ered it under an}^ circum- 
stances,” Edith replied in a sharp, irritated tone. “A 
delightful proposal of marriage, to be sure, which contains 
the assurance that the prudent wooer entertains the hope 
that he will not make his prospective wife happy ! Is that 
a man? I do not comprehend how you can still defend 
him, after this doleful letter. You ought now to be en- 
lightened in regard to your friend’s character.” 

She departed in a bad humor and left Edington alone. 
Later, in the course of the evening, however, she turned 
the conversation anew upon the letter. 

“If Mr. Midford has not changed his mind on the 
way,” she remarked, “or if he is not waiting in New York 


76 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


for a letter from me, with the patience and resignation so 
peculiarly his own, then we may probably expect to see 
your friend here soon. I, of course, shall not receive him. 
What shall 3’ou do? ” 

“I cannot close m3' doors against him.” 

“I do not ask that. What shall 3'ou say to him? ” 

“ I reall}' do not know, dear Edith ; I must leave that 
to the inspiration of the moment .... I wish that the scene 
of our meeting were over. The ver}' thought of it makes 
me hot and cold all over.” 

“What a brave set 3011 men are ! I am not afraid of 
all the Midfords on earth, but 3'ou, confess now. 3'ou are 
trembling at the thought of Thomas Midford.” 

“I do not tremble for an3' man alive ! I wish Thomas 
Midford were m3' enem3' : then 1 could easil3' have it over 
with him. Unfortunatel3^ he is m3' friend.” ■ 

“You lose little when you lose him.” 

“ I have alwa3's been fond of him. He never showed 
an3dhing but friendship to me.” 

“Onl}^ confess frankly, that 3'ou regret having sup- 
planted him.” ; 

Edington drew a deep breath and looked up to the ’ 
ceiling resignedl3^ Then, controlling his indignation, he 
said gently: “No, Edith, I have never regretted what I 
have done. For no price, not even for the sake of 
Midford’s friendship, would I wish to recall what has 
happened. You know it ! Why are 3'ou so cruel and 
unjust? ” 

“ Because I love you above eveiything else ! Oh, 
Alexander, do not be angry with me ; forgive me ! ” 

The 3"Oung couple embraced each other and peace was 
again concluded ; but it was an unsatisfactor3^ peace, that 
made neither of them reall3" happy. 

A few days after this. Midford entered Edington’s 


HANS, THE HREAMER. 


77 


office at an early hour one morning. He greeted his friend 
as if he had left him the day before. He was hot altered 
in the least : his movements were measured, his glance full 
of care. For the last twelve days, that is, ever since he 
had left New York, he had been constantly inquiring of 
himself the reason wh}^ Edith could have left his letter un- 
answered ; and none of the numerous replies which he 
had thought out for himself had been a satisfactor}^ one. 
He had arrived in Paris the preceding evening and his first 
step was to call on Edington, of whom he wished to inquire 
whether the Comyns were in Paris, and whether b}" chance 
Edington might not have a letter for him from Edith. 

Edington was painfully embarrassed. He hardly ven- 
tured to look at his friend. But his confusion only lasted 
a few seconds. He quickly plucked up courage and said : 

“ Thomas Midford, I regret very much that I must be 
the one to wound you .... I have become engaged to 
Edith Comyn.” 

Edington was prepared for a violent scene with Mid- 
ford. He would have preferred it if the latter had heaped 
reproaches upon him and given him an opportunity to 
vindicate himself. But Midford stood as if stunned. He 
had grown pale and grasped the table, before which he 
was standing, with both hands. 

‘‘Understand me,” repeated Edington, aggressive!}’, — 
for he was obliged to speak, to maintain his composure, — 
“I have become engaged to Miss Comyn.” 

Midford looked at him with unseeing eyes, turned 
noiselessly away and approached the door. Edington fol- 
lowed him and laid his hand upon Midford’s shoulder: 
“Midford, listen to me!” But the injured man made a 
rapid and anxious motion, as if he had been touched by 
something unclean, and wished to shake it off ; and with- 
out ^'ouchsa^ing Edington a word or a glance, he stepped 


78 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


across the threshold. Only when he reached the street 
did he come to a clear realization of his misfortune. 

“Is it possible ! ” he said to himself He did not 
dream and ponder as usual ; he lived entirely in the pres- 
ent. He felt himself cruelly treated, betrayed. Not for a 
second did the hope occur to him that the matter might 
yet turn out in his favor, — that he could win Edith back 
again. He felt that she was lost to him irrevocably ; yet 
he wanted to see her once more. “For what purpose? ” — 
He put this question to himself without repl3dng to it. He 
wanted to hear from her own lips that she was faithless. 
In California he had taken great pains to put a false inter- 
pretation upon her letter ; now he understood it as Warden 
had understood it, as a confession of love. She should 
acknowledge that she had lied. 

He had approached the Com^m residence with a rapid 
step. It was still earl}’, — eleven o'clock in the morning. 
At the moment that he was about to enter the house Edith ' 
came towards him. She receded a step at first, unpleas- : 
antly surprised ; then she walked up to Midford and 
extended her hand, quite unembarrassed. 

“Good morning, Mr. Midford; I am A’ery glad to see 
you again, looking so well and cheerful.” The man looked 
the ver}" picture of suffering. 

“Miss Comjm,” he replied in a stifled voice, “I must 
speak with you ; onl}’ a few words .... Will you allow me 
to conduct 3^ou back to your drawing-room? ” i 

“ I regret exceeding!}’, Mr. Midford, that just at this 
moment I have not the time. Can you not call on us 
after lunch? My mother will be delighted to see you. 
Or will you accompany me? I am going to the Hue de 
Montaigne.” 

She started on her way without awaiting Midford’s 
reply, and he walked along by her side. She cast a side 


HANS, THE HREAMER. 


71 ) 


glance upon him and noticed that he was wearing the same 
overcoat which she was familiar with last winter. The 
color of the garment was now faded and it looked some- 
what shabl)3\ Alexander Edington alwa3^s dressed with 
the most exquisite care and was one of the most elegant 
young men in Paris. Midford seemed to himself inex- 
pressibly pitiful beside this calm, cold, polite young lady ; 
but after a little wdiile his breast filled with bitter rancour, 
and in a trembling voice he exclaimed : 

“I shall not return, and you will not see me again. 
You called me, and I hastened hither from the ends of the 
earth .... Now 3^011 receive me like a stranger. You are 
treating me badl}", and I have not deserved this from 3^ou ; 
— and Alexander Edington has treated me still worse ; and 
I have alwa3"S been his friend .... Shame on 3^ou both ! ” 

Edith was holding her head down, for she was en- 
gaged in finding a dr3^ path for her little feet. It had 
rained hard shortl3" before, and here and there large pools 
of water were standing upon the broad, uneven pavement. 
The blood mounted to her cheeks as she heard Midford’s 
reproaches. She sought for an answer. When she turned 
her head around toward her companion he had disap- 
peared. She walked on with the short, rapid, regular step 
peculiar to the ladies of Paris. Her daint3" feet looked 
ver3" prett3" in her stout, well-made little boots. She was 
aware of this fact, and she thought of it as she raised her 
dress somewhat higher while crossing the avenue of the 
Champs Ely sees. The thought of Midford did not trouble 
her; 3"et she was curious to see Edington, so as to learn 
how the interview between the two friends had passed off. 

Midford stood still and looked after Edith's rapidl3' 
retreating figure. He noticed that the maid, who had dis- 
creetl3^ remained a few steps behind while he had been con- 
versing with her mistress, now rejoined her. It seemed to 


80 


HANS, THE HREAMER. 


liiin as if he remarked a mocking smile upon the woman s 
face as she hurried past him. He felt humiliated before 
the maid, before himself, before the whole world. He did 
not want ever again to see any one he knew. He stepped 
into a cab, which was standing near by, and gave orders to 
be driven to his hotel. There he remained the whole day 
in his room. The sky grew dark, gray clouds settled down 
upon Paris, and a heavy, pouring rain burst forth from 

them. 

Midford opened the window ; the cold rain l)eat upon 
his face and refreshed him. He drew several deep breaths ; 

then, without closing the window, he threw himself upon 
his bed and sank into a heavy slumber. He awoke shiver- 
ing, a few hours later. It was beginning to grow dark. 
He experienced a ph3"sical pain in his breast, that made it 
difficult for him to breathe. He was too much fatigued to 
reflect upon the matter, but he felt indescribably miserable. 
He mechanically packed up the few things that he had 
taken out of his trunk ; then he rang, called for his bill, 
and by eight o’clock, twent^^-four hours after his arrival in 
Paris, he was on his wa}" to London. He was afraid that 
he was going to be sick, and for this very reason he wished 
to leave Paris. Tlie thought that Edington might hunt 
him up, take pity on him, was unendural)le to him. He 
was not angr}^ with his false friend nor the faithless lady 
of his love ; but he never wanted to see them again. The 
only human being for whom he longed was Georgej 
Warden. 

Edington appeared at the Comyns’ at the usual hour. 
He looked depressed and spoke exceptionally- little during 
the meal. Mrs. Comyn, who noticed this, thought thatj 
the lovers had been quarreling. She wished to give them 
an opportunity to become reconciled with each other, and 
soon after dinner retired to her room, with the pretext of 


1 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


81 


having a letter to write. A very lively scene then ensued 
between Edith and her betrothed : He upbraided her for 
her hardheartedness toward Midford, and she reproached 
liim with his cowardliness, and even his lack of love. Sev- 
eral times she offered defiantly to give him back his prom- 
ise. He felt intensely wounded at this, but Edith seemed 
to him morbidly excited. He subdued his anger, and 
acted as if he had not heard wdiat she had said : You 

are excited,” he observed, “and I am, too. It is best that 
I should go. You have wounded me, and I should only 
offend you if I were to tell you how I feel at this moment. 
All revoir! I will call for you here tomorrow punctually at 
tw^o o’clock.” 

She was standing at the other end of the drawing- 
room and nodded to him silentl3\ 

When Edington reached the street he regretted hav- 
ing left without a farewell kiss. Edith’s anger and passion 
were only evidences of her love for him ! He would not 
leave her without making his peace with her. So he 
returned to the house. The front door inside the house, 
that led to the apartments, was standing open, as the 
servant, immediately after Mr. Edington had left, had 
occupied himself with closing the blinds in the upper hall 
and putting out the lights on the stairs. 

Alexander opened the door of the drawing-room. 

Edith was sitting at a small table, writing. She did 
not even raise her head, for she took it for granted that it 
was the servant entering the room. Not a trace of excite- 
ment was to be discovered any longer upon her counte- 
nance. Edington watched her for a few seconds and then 
called her b}" name. She sprang up. 

“How you frightened me ! ” 

“I could not leave you without making my peace 


82 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


with 3’OU,” he said. “Do not be angry with me, Edith. I 
love 3’ou above everj^thing ! ” 

“ My kind Alexander ! ” She gave him her hand and 
rested her head confidingly upon his shoulder. 

“You had the same thought as I,” he continued ten- 
derly. “You were writing to me.” 

Edith did not repl}^ He was standing close beside 
the table at which she had been seated, and involuntarily 
he looked down upon the unfinished letter which lay upon 
it : “Dear Madame Duvivier,” the first line read. 

He had supposed her in tears, grieved to death on his 
account, and he found her writing to her milliner. He felt 
mortified. 

She knew exactly what was passing in his mind, and 
was out of temper about it ; but what explanation could 
she give him? The fact was simply this : it had been 
arranged that Edington was to accompaii}' herself and 
her mother the next da^" to Versailles. Edith wanted 
to please her fiance more than ordinaril}^, especially" during 
Midford’s stay' in Paris, and soon after her lover had gone 
she had thought of writing to her milliner again, that the 
new hat which Edington had ordered for her at her request, 
and which she wanted to wear on this excursion to Ver- 
sailles, must be ready' by' one o’clock. The servant was to 
carry' this letter to Madame Duvivier the first thing in the 
morning; consequently' Edith was obliged to write it at 
once. But all men do not understand that a woman, even 
when she is in sore trouble, has to think how she can look 
the prettiest possible in her distress. Edington made this 
discovery now for the first time, and was so amazed by it 
that he was not able to utter a word. He pressed Edith’s 
hand again, kissed her on the brow and left ; but on the 
way to his apartments he went along meditating and shak- 


HANS, THE HREAMER. 83 

ing his head, as if he, too, had become nothing more nor 
less than a “Hans, the Dreamer.” 

The short passage of the mail steamer from Calais to 
Dover was an especially rough one that night. It rained 
and the wind blew ; the sky was black. Most of the pas- 
sengers sat huddled together in the steaming ' cabin below, 
or, with pale faces, were lying on uncomfortable sofas, 
while the steward, indifferent to weather and passengers, 
stood behind the “bar” and dealt out sherr}^, brandy and 
soda-water. 

The stout little steamer ploughed its way indefati- 
gably through the short, fierce waves of the Channel. It 
rose and sank ; it was tossed from right to left ; it climbed 
up one wave only to be seized by another and hurled on 
its side ; but wheezing, groaning, hissing, it still fought its 
way forward unremittingly. In front of the steamer a 
great white expanse of light danced upon the raging sea, 
cast by the light on the mainmast far out into the night. 
Outside of this shifting illuminated space reigned impene- 
trable darkness. The deck was covered with water ; a few 
small lanterns shed a dull, reddish light around. Besides 
the captain, the officers and sailors, who this night had a 
difficult service to perform, and who each and all stood 
mute and attentively watching at their posts, there was 
one solitary passenger on deck. He heeded neither wind 
nor weather. He was wet to the skin, but he minded it 
not, although he was shaking with a chill. He was stand- 
ing with legs well apart, in that relaxed, yielding attitude 
that proclaims the experienced seafarer, his arms leaning 
upon the bulwarks of the deck, gazing out into the furious 
night. A broad wave that, splashing and roaring, cast 
itself against the side of the ship, and rising -above it, 
buried ever^dhing upon the deck for a moment beneath it, 
tore him away from his place and dashed him upon the 


84 


HAXS, THE BRFAMER. 


floor. He slowly gathered himself up again. A sailor 
stepped up to him ; 

“ Come, sir,” he exclaimed grutfly, give me your arm. 
This is no place for you ! ” 

“Thank you, I prefer to stay here,” the passenger 
replied gently. 

Thereupon the sailor went to the helmsman and said 
to him: “Keep an eye on that man yonder; it looks to 
me as if he were not quite right in his head.” 

The passenger had again assumed his former position 
at the bulwarks and was bending flrr out over them. Then 
a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and the same 
sailor who had already" addressed him said : 

“I cannot have 3"ou here, sir. A wave might wash 
you overboard.” 

“That would be a great piece of luck,” rejoined the 
passenger, in a mournful voice. His heart had become 
full to suffocation ; he was obliged to open it to some one. 

“ Sir ! Sir ! ” the sailor said, in a kindly, reassuring 
and warning tone. “Come with me.” And he led the 
other, who followed him involuntarily, into a forlorn little 
cabin near the wheel-house. “ Rest here. In twenty min- 
utes we shall be in Hover.” He looked at his melancholy 
guest, shaking his head. “What’s the use of losing cour- 
age, sir? ” he continued, in a cheerful and brisk tone. 
“ Grit is what does it, — like our boat : right through the 
storm, always ahead ! ” 

And at these words of sympathetic encouragement, 
the poor sick Midford begail to weep, softly but bitterly. 

. * 

* 


* 


85 


ilANS. THE DREAMER. 

London, Nov. 26th, 186. . . . 

George Warden, Esq., 

Bligiiton Bar, 

California, U. S. A. : 

We confirm our communication forwarded the 13th 
inst, of which we enclose a letter-press copy, and have the 
honor to inform you today that Mr. Thomas 31idford, of 
Blighton Bar, has been lying very ill in Dover since the 
23d inst. His connection with our house w^as discovered 
1)}" finding a cheque-book which he carried upon him. As 
you instructed us in 3^our last favor to hold £500 sterling 
subject to Mr. Midford’s order, on which he has not as yet 
drawn, we considered that we were acting according to 
your intentions when we opened a credit of £50 sterling for 
the landlord of the hotel where Mr. Midford is staying at 
present, who has been represented to us as a respectable 
person, commissioning him to do and to have done, at our 
expense, whatever may be necessary for the good care of 
your friend. We beg you to take note of these arrange- 
ments, and subscribe ourselves. 

Very respectfully j^ours, 

James Burgis & Co. 

When Warden had read this letter, which had been 
forwarded by the “Overland Pony Express,” he betook 
himself straightway to the telegraph office, and indited a 
long and clearly comprehensible dispatch to his London 
bankers, without any regard to the number of words. In 
it he requested these gentlemen to send a messenger to 
Dover to make inquiries concerning Midford’s health, and 
to inform the latter that he, Warden, w^ould start at once 
for Europe, in case that Midford would like to wait for 
him there. Four days afterward Warden received a dis- 
patch from Ventnor, Isle of Wight, signed by Midford, 
from which it appeared that the latter had almost recov- 
ered, that he intended to remain in Europe till 3Iarch, and 
w^ould be delighted to make the return journe}^ to Cali- 
fornia in Warden’s society. 


86 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


Mr. George AYarden required very little time to pack 
his trunk and set his business affairs in order. That same 
day he had a long interview wdth Midford’s representative, ■ 
Mr. James Cope, and the following morning he took the 
place of honor on the “ San Francisco Mail, ” by the side 
of the apoplectic driver with the bright red gloves. Amid 
the hurrahs of the ‘*boys,” who shouted, “A prosperous 
journey and a happy return ! ” after him, he took his 
departure from Blighton Bar. 

It was in the latter part of the month of Fel)ruarv. 

In London, and also in Paris, the weather was still raw, 
almost wintiy; but on the southern slope of the Isle of 
Wight the approach of spring was already making itself 
felt. In man}" of the houses in Yentnor the windows were 
standing open, and strollers were seen on the beach, warm- 
ing themselves in the bright sunshine and enjoying the r 
view of the deep bhie sea. | 

An open carriage drove along the “ Seaside Terrace ” \ 
and stopped in front of a pleasant little villa. The propri- > 
etress, who was sitting at the window, behind the neatly : 
polished panes, observed a stately, distinguished-looking ! 
gentleman who, although the carriage had driven up at a ; 
high rate of speed, as if its passenger were in great haste, 
now alighted from it very calmly, casting a tranquil glance 
at the windows of the cottage and approached the entrance 
to the villa. The landlady thereupon left the room and, 
smoothing her neat apron, advanced to meet the traveler 
at the front door. 

“Does Mr. Midford live here? ” the stranger inquired. 

“Mr. Midford lives here.” 

“ Is he at home? ” 

“He is down on the beach.” She shaded her eyes 
with her left hand, looked keenly all around, and then 
pointed with her right to a certain stroller. “ There he is. 


HANS, THE DUEAMEE. 87 

down yonder .... Do you recognize him? There .... 
alone.” 

there an unoccupied room in your house? ” 

‘‘At your service. A nice room, with an outlook 
upon the sea ; next to Mr. Midford’s apartment. Would 
you like to inspect it? ” 

“ That is not necessary. Have my trunk carried up 
there.” 

“Shall I send for Mr. Midford? My daughter can 
run to him in a minute.” 

“Thank you, no ; I will go and look for him m3^self.” 
He paid the driver, who touched his hat gratefull^^, and 
then he proceeded towards Midford. The latter, with his 
hands behind him, was slowl}^ strolling up and down the 
beach. When he saw the tall gentleman approaching him 
he stood still. Suddenl}^ he recognized him, and advanced 
quickly to meet him. 

“ How are you, Midford? ” 

“ How are you. Warden? ” 

The two shook hands cordially, and then each drew 
back a step to contemplate the other. 

“You still look somewhat hollow-eyed,” said Warden; 
“but we’ll soon have that all right again.” 

“You are changed more than I am,” Midford replied 
pleasantly. “ I knew you onl}^ in a red flannel shirt and 
top boots .... and now !....” With visible satisfaction 
he surve^^ed his tall friend, who, in a well-made, simple 
traveling suit, had the look and the bearing of the born 
gentleman. 

“If I am dressed again like a civilized human being,” 
Warden rejoined, “it is all 3"our doing. I have come here 
on the strength of 3"our telegi'am.” 

“I thank you,” Midford replied, with evident emotion. 

The friends had much to tell each other, and they 


HANS, THE DREAMER 


R8 

were together the whole day long and until late in the 
evening, on the beach and in Midford’s pleasant room. 
But the roles were changed : Midford had no examination 
to undergo. Warden was the more communicative of the 
two. His friend’s story did not appear to interest him ; 
he only inquired after the state of his health. He did 
not even mention Midford’s trip to Paris, and the name 
“Jemima,” with which he had formerly been so ready, did 
not once cross his lips. He announced that he had made 
a strike at Blighton Bar, and might now consider himself a 
well-to-do, if not, indeed, a rich man. 

At the same time he had only good news to tell of 
Midford’s business. The “ house ” in Blighton Bar, under 
Cope’s careful guidance, had rapidly increased in impor- 
tance, and the income which it produced had become so 
considerable that Midford, according to Warden’s opinion, 
might hope to be free from debt in a year and a half or two 
3^ears. 

“And what shall I do then?” Midford asked. The 
two friends were sitting in Midford’s room at a little table 
upon which the landlady had served their tea in a most 
appetizing manner. Outside, the night was clear and 
beautiful. The full moon shone bright in the cloudless 
sk}', and was reflected in the trembling sea beneath, flecked i 
with silver and black, whose long waves rolled in upon the | 
sandy beach and then retired, with a gentle murmur and a 
muffled, monotonous roar. A picture of tranquillitj’ and 
peace, outside and in the homelike room ! 

“ And what shall I do then? ” repeated Midford. 

“And now the man is worr^dng about what he will 
have to worry about when he has no more worries ! ” War- 
den exclaimed, clasping his hands in a discouraged way, 
but smiling pleasantl}^ the while, as one smiles at a child 
that one wishes to console. 


tlANS, THE DREAMER. 


89 


“Do you still remember the words of my old friend, 
to whom you sent your compliments? ” Midford continued 
earnestly, “‘A life full of care is better than an empty 
life.’ What am I to do when I have nothing more to worry 
about? ” 

“ Speculate — lose — get into debt again ; at least don’t 
let that trouble you, how you can make new cares for 
3^ourself ! ” 

Midford had grown meditative again. Warden looked 
at him scrutinizingl3\ 

“Young man,” he inquired, in a low tone, “Would it 
b}' chance afford you an}^ pleasure to tell me how things 
went with 3^ou in Paris? ” 

“The3^ went veiy badl3^” 

“Did Jemima finall3" prefer a wealthier suitor to 3'OU? ” 

“Him whom I considered m3^ best friend.” 

“Then the story is really perfect in its wa3^ But 
that is past now. . . . Would 3^ou rather not speak of it? ” 

Midford did not repl3^ 

“ Would 3^ou like to return to Paris to inquire after 
3^our lost friends? ” 

“I never wish to see them again.” 

“ Would it interest 3^011 to learn what has become of 
them? ” 

“What can 3^011 tell me about it? ” 

“More than 3"ou imagine.” 

And Warden narrated to his friend, who listened 
attentively, how he had made the vo3"age from New York 
to Southampton in compan3^ with a newl3" maiTied couple 
who were returning to Paris from their wedding trip to 
America. It is eas3^ to make new acquaintances on board 
a steamer during a long V03^age. Warden had frequentl3" 
conversed with the 3'Oung husband and his prett3^ bride, 
and the three became tolerabh^ intimate. 


00 


HANS. THE DREAMER. 


“ One morning,” continued Warden — ” we had been six 
or seven days at sea, and my new acquaintances had 
already confided to me all sorts of things in regard to their 
surroundings and their life in Paris, — the young bride said 
tome: ‘You will surely not return to America without 
having spent some time in Paris. I hope that you will not 
forget us then, and will come and see us.’ 

‘“With pleasure,’ I replied, ‘if I come to Paris; but 
that does not depend entirely upon m3^self ; that is, I am 
not going to Europe for my owm amusement, nor for 
business, but to look up a sick friend, whom I am going to 
take back with me to California, when he is w^ell again.’ 

“ ‘ If your friend is a true American, he will certainly 
not refuse to accompany 3^011 to Paris,’ the lad3" remarked. 

“‘I do not know,’ I said. ‘Something ma3^ have 
befallen him in Paris that has rendered the cit3^ unpleasant 
to him.’ 

“‘I know a great man3^ of our compatriots in Paris,’ 
she replied, ‘perhaps 3"our friend is not unknown to me. 
Would there be an3^ impropriet3" in m3’ inquiring his 
name? ’ 

“‘Not the slightest, madame,’ I answered. ‘My 
friend’s name is Thomas Midford — at 3’our service.’ 

“ She did not answer a syllable. She became neither 
red nor pale, nor embarrassed. She gazed far out over the 
ocean, as if she were seeking for something on the hori- 
zon ; and after awhile she remarked : ‘ It is chill3^ I will 
get a warmer wrap.’ 

“ The sea was rolling high, anti I gave her my arm to 
escort her to the cabin stairs. 

“ ‘ Do 3"ou know 1113^ friend? ’ I inquired. 

“‘Yes, slightly.’ 

“ ‘I should be willing to wager that that is Jemima,’ 
I said to m3’self. I cannot explain to you whence that 


HANS, THE DREAXER. 


91 


thought came to me, but there it was. I wanted to find 
out for a certainty, so I joined the young husband, who 
was promenading to and fro upon the deck. 

“‘Are you acquainted with my friend Thomas Mid- 
ford,’ I asked him. 

“He stared at me, turned red to his very forehead, 
and stammered : ‘ Yes — very well — How is he? ’ 

“ Now I was sure of the matter. ‘ He has been sick,’ 
I replied, ‘ and he is now better again.’ 

“ After that daj’ there was an end to the friendship of 
the Edingtons for me. The couple avoided me and I saw 
that my society was unpleasant to the wife and embar- 
rassed the husband. I had no reason for wishing to annoy 
them, so I sought the society of others; but on your 
account the two interested me, and T watched them. On 
shipboard it is not an easy matter for one to keep out of 
another’s way, and so I saw many things from which 1 
drew mj’ conclusions.” 

Warden stopped and again cast a scrutinizing glance 
upon Midford. The latter’s eyes were cast down and his 
face had not changed. 

« Shall I continue? ” 

“ If you please.” 

“ Does not this story excite you? ” 

“No. What you say does not pain me — it only 
interests me.” 

“ I am glad of that. Well, then, Thomas Midford, I 
am quite decidedly of the opinion that you have not lost 
much in that woman. She is no better and no worse than 
a thousand others ; but she would not have suited you. 
You can govern only by kindness, and Mrs. Edington is 
one of those who seem unable to bear kind treatment. 
Sandy Edington is a tall, handsome man, who holds his 
head high, and likes to begin his remarks with ‘I say’ ; 


92 


HANS, THE HREAMER. 


but I hardly- believe that bis hand is firm enough to lead 
the woman with whom he now has to go through life from 
her ways to his. It seems to me as if, even now, each of 
them were following a separate path, and that signs of 
submission were to be discovered in the husband rather 
than in the wife. The tall Sandy did not always look 
good-humored when the little Edith gave him this or that 
commission ; and I could see very well that he would have 
preferred not to obey her. This could not escape the 
wife’s eyes either; but then she would say, calmly and 
pleasantly, but not tenderly, — ‘ please ’ ; and he always did 
what she commanded, finally. 

“ A man does not like to confess to himself that he 
has made a mistake, when he sees that all his regret will ; 
not help matters. He lives then as he best can, with the ' 
given and irremediable factors. I imagine that Edington is ' 
prepared to regulate his life according to this principle. [ 
He and his wife will, in time, make mutual concessions to f 
one another ; they will lose without much pain the illusions j 
wdiich they cherished when they fell in love and became \ 
engaged ; and I take it for granted that the conjugal rela- i 
tions between them will gradually settle down into a very 
matter-of-fact, extremely respectable and, to a certain de- 
gree, perfectly satisfactory union. But I should like to 
swear, and I would even wager, that Alexander has not 
found the intense happiness he once dreamed of, at hisi 
Edith’s side; and that the young wife has already asked i 
herself several times since her marriage, ‘And is this all?’ 
That is not a calamity ; neither the husband nor the wife 
is to be pitied ; but for 3 ou, Hans, it w^ould have been a 
calamit3\ Rejoice that you have escaped it ! ” 

“ Perhaps 3"ou are right ! ” 

“ Of course I am right. And as I have now got to 
philosophizing, — a pastime in which I indulge from time 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


93 


to time, since I spoiled my own life in an extremely un- 
philosophical manner, — I will tell you another thing, which, 
if T had known it years ago, might have saved me perhaps 
many a vexation. The marriage with the beloved being, 
in novels and romances, forms the so-called ‘ reconciling ’ 
conclusion. In actual fact, this act is only the beginning 
of real life. It proves nothing for the happiness of the 
hero and heroine ; on the contrary, it places everything in 
question, for it only demonstrates that he and she have 
taken a ticket in the lottery in which so many are gambling. 
Whether they will win a large or a small prize, or lose 
their entire investment, — that is a matter of luck. The 
ticket ^ Edith’, — I am firmly convinced, — would have been 
a bad one for you. You, perhaps, are still assuming that 
you had staked your entire life’s happiness on it, and have 
now lost it. You are mistaken ; you have not yet plaj'^d 
your game and you have not lost anything. In a few 
months, even, you will think differently about the matter 
[ from what you do today. In a few years, — and now I am 
allowing you an unreasonably long time, — you will have 
I completely forgotten it. Everjdhing is forgotten in this 
life. If it were not so, no one could live ; for to live is to 
busy one’s self with the morrow. He who can only 
remember, — who lives with the past, with the dead, — is 
himself as good as dead. Only in time will you learn to 
understand this ; but when you have once attained to the 
knowledge that what is past and gone is not of so very 
much consequence to you, as, sooner or later, it is sure to 
be forgotten, — then you will also live through each today 
with greater tranquillity. What you consider happiness 
will not exalt you to heaven, and unhappiness will not fell 
you to the ground. You will then say to yourself what I 
have been saying to myself every day for years, which has 
enabled me finally — after many desperate struggles, after 


94 


HANS, THE DREAMER. 


Imrviiig many a sweet hope, — to lead a contemplative, 
comfortable and not altogether unsatisfactory existence, — 
‘ Take it easy ! ”’ 

Midford, who had listened meditativel}’ to his friend, 
sat still awhile longer, then he arose, went to the window, 
and gazed for a long time into the peaceful night, and, 
without turning around towards Warden, whose eyes had 
followed him with kindliness and sympathy, he said in a 
low tone, — “I will try.” 


ALL IN VAIN. 

[From the German of Rudolf Lindau. ] 


Copyright, 1885, by l. schick. 







It was in the month of September in the year 1866. 
I was in Yokohama at the time. The day had been hot 
and sultr}^ Just before sunset a violent thunderstorm 
had arisen and cooled the atmosphere. The storm had 
soon passed over, the sky had become bright again, and 
now the calm, lovely night was drawing nigh, cool and 
refreshing. 

I was sitting on the veranda of a cottage which my 
friend, Henry L’hermet, had built on ‘Hhe hill,” in the 
vicinity of the European quarter, and in which he pro- 
posed to spend the hottest months of the year, in future. 
He had chosen a beautiful site. On the right lay an im- 
mense forest, in whose shades the terrible voice of the 
ocean, near by, died away harmoniously ; to the left, in the 
valley, could be seen the bright, new houses of Yokohama ; 
to the rear, far away in the distance, the long, gloomy 
Hakkoni mountain range. In solitaiy pride and grandeur 
the enormous mass of Fusi-}- ama, the “ peerless mountain,” 
the Olympus of Japan, arose on the extremest horizon. 
Finall}^, in front of us, extended the ocean, the beautiful, 
treacherous blue sea of the Empire of the Rising Sun. 
The tempest which had lashed it a few hours previously^ 
and against whose oppression it had rebelled, raging and 
foaming, had now subsided ; but the billows had not 
become calm again. Roaring and rumbling, as if com- 


6 


ALL IN VAIN. 


plaining of the violence to which it had been subjected, the 
ocean i*olled in short, defiant waves, and dashed, hissing 
and angr}', against the steep, rocky walls of the high shore. 

But a profound peace reigned above the ocean. The 
night was clear and bright; the full moon was mailing 
through white clouds, and its shimmering silver}’ light lay 
like an immense fan of light upon the dusky sea. 

My friend had l^een silent a long time, and only when 
T reminded him that it was late, and was about to retire, 
did he detain me. He had been lying on a long bamlxx) 
chair, until then ; now he arose and stood beside me. 

“For the last half hour I have been seeking for a 
suitable introduction to a stor}’ which 3’ou must lister to,” 
he said. 1 cannot find one, but still I should like to have 
a talk with 3’ou. You return to Europe tomorrow. I 
shall not see 3’ou soon again, and after you have left, I 
shall be alone for a long time. At my age a man does not 
easily make new friends. I do not often speak about mv- 
self. I should like to do so tonight for once. Will vou 
listen to me? ” 

I sat down again, and L’hermet. after he had walked 
up and down the piazza a few times, as if he wished to 
collect his thoughts, seated himself near me. The moon 
shone bright upon his face, revealing it to me still and 
grave, as I had known it for 3’ears. His voice was calm 
and deep, and remained so to the end of the sad story to 
which I listened without interrupting him. 

A Japanese sen’ant, who had noiselessH approached 
to see if we needed his services, brought us without asking 
some fresh tea, on observing that I had lighted a fresh 
cigar. Then he crouched down in a dark comer of the 
veranda, where he soon after fell asleep. L’hermet, with- 
out taking an}" notice of him. commenced his stor}’ as 
follows : 


ALL IN YAIN. 


7 


‘‘ Man}' years have jDassed since I left Europe for the 
first time. I was at that time nineteen years old. I was 
without means. My imagination made foreign countries 
attractive to me, and a cousin older than myself, who had 
gone out to China before me and with whom I was in corre- 
spondence, advised me to come out to him. He promised 
to find me employment, and offered to advance my travel- 
ing expenses. 

My father has died many years before; my mother 
was living with my married sister. We resided in a large 
commercial town, where people were accustomed to talk of 
foreign lands; long journeys did not seem unusual nor 
formidable. My mother did not oppose my departure, 
although she bade me adieu with a heavy heart. I 
received the news of her death a few weeks after my 
arrival in China, and in her I lost the only living being 
whose love had bound me to Europe. My sister, fifteen 
years older than myself, had married while 1 was still a 
child. She only cared for her own family and had become 
almost a stranger to me. 

My cousin, who had establislied himself in Canton, 
received me with open anus, and procured me a good situ- 
ation in a short time. The Chinese trade was at that time 
especially lucrative. The Chinese, as well as the foreign- 
ers engaged in it, made large amounts of money with- 
out any trouble. Money had, therefore, a correspondingly 
low value, and was spent by even the younger and less 
wealthy members of the foreign community with great 
facility. 

I had led a very simple life in Europe, and expensive 
tastes of any kind were completely foreign to me. But I 
now was easily induced to follow the universal example, 
and, without loss of time, assumed the extravagant habits 
which were prevalent about me. This had no further 


8 


ALL IN VAIN. 


injurious consequences for me, as I made fully as much as 
I spent ; only I found, after I had worked for five years, that . 
my pecuniary position had remained about the same as on 
the day of my arrival. I made enough to live, but I did 
not lay aside an^dhing out of m3' earnings. In the hope of , 
being able to alter this state of affairs, I decided to follow ' 
the example of my cousin and establish m3'self on m3' own 
account. I was able, without much efifort, to find the j 
means and the credit to found a business of my own. f 

After the lapse of a few prosperous 3'ears I had laid | 
aside nearl3" thirty thousand dollars, when the foreign i 
quarter in Canton burned down. M3' house and warehouse (, 
were completel3' destroyed, and I was obliged to seek ref- J 
uge in Hong Kong. The loss which I had suffered was I 
considerable, but I easil3' consoled myself I felt strong 
enough to regain what I had lost; and m3^ friends who , 
were wealthier than I, or had suffered less, w'ere ready and 
willing to assist me in an3' and eveiy wa3'. But this time 
I did not wish to make use of them. 

It had now been nearly ten 3^ears since I had left 
Europe, and I began to feel the debilitating influence of 
the climate in which I had been living during this long 
time. Besides, the last few months of m3^ residence in 
Canton had been exceptionalh' exciting and fatiguing. 
The viceroy of the province, the terrible Jih, had been 
engaged in exterminating the rebels of the south during 
that time. He set about this task with pitiless energ3'. 
He signed the cruel death warrants without intermission, 
and hundreds of executions took place ever3' day for sev- 
eral months. The place of execution was on a small 
island in the river, called Dutch F0II3', in the immediate 
vicinit3' of m3^ residence. I remember one dreadful da3' 011 ' 
which six hundred rebels were executed. Some twent3' 
of these unfortunates had borne the title of chief, and were ; 


ALL IN VAIN. 


9 


slowly tortured to death with unheard-of cruelty. The 
shrill, heartrending cries of the tortured men reached my 
ears distinctly and drove me, bathed in the perspiration of 
anguish, awaj^ from my house. 

It was impossible not to concern oneself with tliese 
horrible occurrences. They forced themselves upon the 
mind of every one of us, and formed the most frequent 
topic of our conversation. The human heart soon becomes 
hardened under the influence of long-continued violent ex- 
citement, and thus loses the delightful freshness which 
makes it so easily susceptible to the joys and sufferings of 
life. Owing to the influence of the enervating climate and 
the bloody ”occurrences in Canton, a complete revolution 
took place in my character in a brief space of time. jVIj' 
cheerful disposition A-anished, mj' business did not -interest 
me any longer ; the people with whom I mingled daily, 
who had only the same things to tell mo again and again, 
wearied me. I suffered from headache, from loss of sleep 
and appetite, and considered it advisable to consult a phy- 
sician. He had nothing to prescribe for me. “ You must 
go away from here,” he said. “You must return to Europe 
for a few months. The voyage will cure you completely. 
You need nothing but diversion and a change of air. ’ 

My business had been much simplifled by the fire 
which had rol)bed me of the largest part of my property. 
I converted what was left into cash, and with about ten 
thousand dollars in my pocket-book, I embarked for Mar- 
seilles. 1 had formed no definite plans ; my intention was 
simply to divert myself as much as possible on the voyage 
aird during my stay in Europe. However, I had not the 
slightest desire for so-called pleasures. They required 
fatiguing exertions, according to my opinion, and only 
afforded in return a slight enjoyment. I was still a young 
man; but independence, and intercourse with strangers. 


10 


ALL IX A' AIN. 


had made me earnest, thoughtful and old before 1113’ time. 
I determined for the present to settle down in some small, 
and not too nois}', watering-place, and rest there, in the 
midst of beautiful scener3A If this benefited me, I pro- 
posed to visit the great capitals of Europe before m}" return 
to China. 

On the V03"age from Alexandria to Marseilles I 
amused m3^self with picturing m}^ arrival. I fancied that 
the delight of seeing home once more would almost OA^er- 
power me. Man}^ pictures of a return home rose before 
m3" mind : old, half-forgotten songs about wear3^ Avander- 
ers occurred to me once more. I could tell sentimental 
stories to m3"self as I had not done for fifteen 3"ears, and 
at that time, before m3" arrival, I could have described in 
poetical terms the delight of setting foot upon the beloA"ed 
soil of one’s fatherland. 

All this A"anished like the wind as I landed. Onl3" 
for a brief instant did an3"thing like emotion come OA"er me. 
A large row-boat, laden with Avell-dressed people, men and 
women, passed us as we were approaching the wharf The 
passengers appeared ga3^ and livel3", and waved us a 
friendl3" welcome. A prett3", slender girl was standing in 
the bow of the boat, disputing laughingl3" AV"ith a 3"oung 
fellow who could not bear to see her in that somewhat dan- 
gerous position. The loud, clear laughter of the girl pene- 
trated m3" ear like long unheard music. M3" heart sank as 
it suddenl3^ occurred to me that m3" 3-011 th Avas past and 
that 1 had not enjo3"ed it ; and I longed for some one on 
whose shoulder I could la3" m3" head. I felt m3"self alone 
and desolate. ‘‘Past is past, dead is dead,” I said to m3^- 
self involuntaril3", and I could have sat doAAn and wept. 

We landed; we were surrounded 1)3" custom-house 
officers, baggage carriers, driA^ers and porters, avIio fought 
for our trunks and our persons, and offered us their 


ALL IN VAIN. 


11 


services in a loud, disagreeable clamor. I was obliged to 
look after my property myself, and came near having to 
distribute some blows with my cane to protect it against 
seizure b}^ rapacious porters. It was an extremely prosaic 
return home. There was no more chance for tender, 
lovely, heartfelt sentiments of any kind, than for flowers 
to bud in snow. 

I staid only a few hours in ^^elling, gesticulating Mar- 
seilles, which was in the highest degree unpleasant to me, 
and left the same day for my native town, where my 
sister, to whom I had announced my arrival, met me at 
the depot. 

I had not seen her for ten years : she was very much 
altered and looked much older, but I recognized her on the 
spot. She resembled my mother, and my heart throbbed 
violently and my eyes became moist when she folded me 
in her arms and called me, in a trembling voice, her “dear 
and only brother.” If she had wished at that time, we 
could have become good friends, for I felt myself strongly 
attracted to her. But her heart, which had opened for me 
a moment, soon closed again. She inquired with interest 
after m}^ health and after my pecuniaiy condition ; she 
told me about her household cares. But our conversation 
soon afterwards became a discussion of general matters in 
China and Europe, and I separated from her again in a 
few days without any special pain. We had never had 
anything on either side for which to reproach or thank 
each other. For man}^ years she had been pursuing her 
own path in life, which was quite separate from mine ; and 
so I continued on my way, alone. 

A skillful physician, whom I had consulted b}^ my 
sister’s advice, confirmed what my doctor in Canton had 
told me. He mentioned several watering-places to me, 


12 


ALL IX VAIN. 


which would be beneficial to m3" state of health, and I de- 
cided, in accordance with his advice, to go to Tharen 
Springs. He told me that I would find there beautiful 
mountain scenery, pure air and pleasant, quiet, respectable 
society. This was all that I was seeking, and I left at 
once. 

The journe}" to Tharen offered little agreeable diversion. 
I was frequently depressed and morose while it lasted. In 
China, when we talk about home we do this as a general 
thing in order to recall the delights of life in Europe. We 
forget that man}" things were lacking at home which we 
here possess ; we overlook the fact that in Europe we were 
young, and that we have grown old in China. When, at 
last, the long wished for da}" arrives, when we are again 
upon our native soil, we are quite astonished that so few 
of the enjoyments which we expected are offered us. We 
find that home things have become strange to us, that we 
do not understand the people with whom we associate, and 
that we are not understood by them. 

The petty cares of civilized life, which each one of us 
out here can easily shake ofif, seem pitiful, and embitter 
our intercourse with friends of whom we have thought with 
genuine affection during the long years of absence. Many 
of us who complained in China of being homesick, have 
been so radically cured of this disease in a short time, tliat 
they longed at home for their foreign land and returned to 
it. Everything that has value in this life must be pur- 
chased, and only fools imagine that anything really 
precious can be had for nothing. The good and the beau- 
tiful are expensive ; every enjoyment, every delight, must 
be paid for in some way. The wise man is he who knows 
how to estimate that which he wishes to possess at its 
actual value, and is willing to give its full equivalent for 
it, but no more. Here, in China, we frequently make the 


ALL IN VAIN. 


13 


mistake of purchasing money too dearly by giving for it 
our youth, our health, sometimes our whole life. But an 
independence such as can be obtained here, is a precious 
blessing ; and he who purchases it by hard work and diffi- 
cult renunciations has hardly paid too high a price for it. 
On the other hand, the so-called enjoyments which civilized 
society offers its members seem frequently, to people who 
have grown old in uncivilized foreign countries, to be pur- 
chased too dearly, when all sorts of irksome duties have to 
be performed to obtain them. Freedom and solitude are 
synonymous. Society and social duties cannot be sepa- 
rated. Here in China we are free, because we care for 
nobody and nobody cares for us. In Europe we become 
slaves to customs and etiquette, or else we seem like insuf- 
ferabl}" whimsical people who are refused admittance into 
society, and rightly too. 

I had not been a week in Europe, and 3^et I was 
already making new plans for my return to China. The 
condition of my health may in reality have been to blame 
for the fact that I became so needlessly indignant at many 
things which T saw and heard. What amazed me especiall}' 
was the never-ceasing begging, not by professional beg- 
gars, to whom I gave with pleasure, but by hackmen, 
porters, waiters, whose insatiable avarice became positively 
disgusting to me. I had never seen anything of the kind 
in China, and out there I had forgotten certain character- 
istics of my native land. So what I now saw of my com- 
patriots on m}' journe}" inspired me with little respect. 

Then I also became frequently provoked at the con- 
versations of my fellow-travelers ; it seemed to me that in 
thirty-six hours I heard more sill}" speeches than had 
affiicted my ears during ten years abroad. The intellectual 
man is a rarity in China, and is only missed by a few ; 
there is much stupidity and ignorance here, but in silly, 


14 


ALL IN VAIN. 


frivolous talk, no one can compare with the civilized 
Europeans. 

A couple of hours before arriving at Tharen, I met a 
pleasant gentleman with whom I accidentally fell into con- 
versation. He gave me to understand in the course of our 
talk together that he was a physician established in Tharen. 
The man pleased me ; and as T was in search of rest and 
general care, I determined to put myself in his hands. 

We soon became very good friends, and, through him, 
partly in obedience to his professional advice, I made sev_ 
eral acquaintances who drew me gradually into a lively 
round of pleasures, of which I previously had had no 
idea. 

My pecuniaiy circumstances at that time were not 
brilliant, as I have already remarked ; l)ut as I was fully 
determined to return to China, and confident that, with my 
large experience, I should not lack remunerative employ- 
ment, even under unfavorable circumstances, I was able to 
use as I thought best the mone}^ that was tlien at m3' 
immediate disposal. This I did bv making my arrange- 
ments for a comfortable life, conforming to all external 
requirements, without recklessness or extravagance, but 
also without scrimping. I felt myself the more entitled to 
do so, as I considered m}' stay in Europe as a vacation, well 
earned b}' m3' ten 3'ears of continuous labor. I can now 
see how I must have given the impression of a man of 
wealth, by the wa3' in which T lived. I never spoke of m3' 
circumstances, because there is nothing in m3' character 
that would induce me to impute to strangers an3' interest 
in them. I made no loud display to attract attention, as 
everv thing ostentatious is repugnant to me ; but I rented 
a prett3' house, kept a nice horse and spent m3' mone3' 
with the pleasure and the apparent indifierence to its value 
with which the laborer, on a Sunda3', lavishes his hardl3' 


ALL IN VAIN. 


15 


earned savinp^s. That this gained for me in the little 
watering-place, the nickname of ‘‘the Nabob, ’ onh' came 
to my ears later. 

* * 

* 


Among my new acquaintances I soon took a special 
interest in the von Norman family, which consisted of the 
mother and two daughters. The eldest daughter, Joanna, 
might have been twenty years of age, and seemed to me 
exceptionally beautiful. Mrs. von Norman was the widow 
of a high government official wffio had left her a large 
fortune, and she moved in the best society. She received 
me with great affability, invited me to call upon her, and 
allowed me, after a brief probation, to consider myself a 
friend of the family. 

The customs of the quiet little watering-place allowed 
me to call frequentty upon Mrs. von Norman. Besides 
this, I met her and her daughters on the promenade, at the 
springs and at open-air concerts. Joanna pleased me very 
much, and with no one did I so like to converse in regard 
to my residence in China, as with her. She appeared to 
take a lively interest in my travels and m3" life in foreign 
lands. She asked questions of me wffiich I answered will- 
ingl3^ and freety, and listened attentive!}" w"hile I talked. 
T felt m}'self a better and more important personage when 
1 was conversing with her, than in the society" of other 
people. She also occasional!}" made certain remarks that 
showed, in a manner very pleasing to me, that she enter- 
tained a high opinion of me, so that, through her, I became 
elevated in my owai estimation. One day, as a popular 
book was being criticised in my presence, she turned to me 
and asked me what I thought of the book. I w"as obliged 
to confess with some embarrassment that I was not familiar 
with the book, that, taken altogether, T had only read very 


16 


ALL IX VAIN. 


little. “ I left Europe young/’ I said, “and since then I 
have always been obliged to work hard, so that only very 
little time was left me for reading.” 

“AYorking is better than reading,” she rejoined. 
“Work forms the character; reading, only the mind. We 
have, unfortunately, too man}^ intellectual people and too 
few men of character.” 

Similar little speeches from the 3'oung girl’s lips 
pleased me very much, although I imagine that I did not 
over-estimate their value. I was accustomed to meditate 
to myself, but I had only rareh^ had opportunity to con- 
verse upon general subjects, and it w’as frequent!}^ difficult 
for me to find the correct and concise expressi(^n for my 
thoughts, as soon as I had left the firm ground of simple 
facts. Miss von Norman, on the contrary, educated by an 
intelligent mother and accustomed to intercourse with well- 
informed and cultivated people, alwa3^s expressed herself 
with great facility" and elegance, and gave a form, even to 
ever}^-day thoughts, that had for me the charm of novelty, 
and surprised me pleasantly. In this she differed com- 
pletely from m}^ friends in China, who usuall}^ had much 
to do and little to say, and in whose mouths a prettih^ 
turned sentence was something quite unusual. 

We have in the east a number of peculiar expressions 
that have become household words, which we make use of 
dail}', while they are unknown in Europe, and consequently 
seem original there. I had a few of these words in my 
small vocabulary", and I applied them, without any- affecta- 
tion, whenever the occasion offered. You know, as well 
as I, the expression “Life is too short,” which is fre- 
quently^ heard here. We say : Life is too short to make 
tiresome calls, too short to smoke bad cigars, too short to 
do this or that which does not please us. Miss von Nor- 


ALL IX VAIX. 


17 


man had appropriated this expression, and would fre- 
quently apply it in a joking way when she met me. 

‘‘Is life too short,” she would ask me, “to allow you 
to go walking with me? ” Ah, no ! My life was not too 
short for that. I felt, even then, that I should always find 
time to do everything she might require of me, and that 
my life would not seem to me too short to present her with 
whatever she would accept of it. 

One evening, as we were sitting alone upon the bal- 
cony, the mother and younger daughter being in the room 
beyond, I mentioned, in the course of the conversation, that 
I intended to return to China toward the end of the year. 

“What ! ” she exclaimed, “you intend to leave Europe 
again? ” 

I looked at her in astonishment. She had arisen and 
was visibly excited. 

“Have I never told you this before?” I asked. “1 
am here only on a vacation trip,” I added, “and next year 
I must go to work again.” 

“You have never mentioned it before,” she said. “I 
supposed that you would now live among us. How long 
shall you remain in China? ” 

She asked this in a voice whose emotion she could 
not conceal, and she looked at me as I had never been 
looked at before. I experienced a peculiar sensation ; I 
could hardly breathe; nor could I turn my gaze away 
from the beautiful brown eyes which rested upon me so 
sadly and reproachfully. 

“Joanna,” I whispered at last. She arose quickly 
and went into the house. 

During the next few days she carefully avoided being 
alone with me, but I often met her glances, that shyly en- 
treated and sadly reproached me, and caused me to forget 
ever3dhing but her. 


18 


ALL IN VAIN. 


The season at the springs was approaching its close. 
One day Mrs. von Nonnan announced to me that she 
slioiild return to Paris, her permanent place of residence, 
on a certain day. 

‘‘We shall see 3^011 there surel3",” she said. “You 
have become a valued friend to us, and I have not the 
slightest intention of giving 3^011 back 3'our entire libert3’, 
after 3’ou have sensed us here so faithfull3\ You must 
l)romise to become a regular visitor at our house in Paris 
also.” 

1 managed with some effort to utter a few words of 
thanks. I wished to add something in regard to m3^ own 
plans and m3^ departure for China, but it suddenl3" seemed 
to me as if I would, in so doing, be revealing a secret, for 
which I ought to have prepared her before, and, embar- 
rassed and confused, I remained silent. She looked at me 
attentivel3', somewhat startled, but still very kindl3y as if 
she expected to hear something more from me ; as I con- 
tinued silent, she proceeded, naturall3’ : 

“Well, in an3" case, you are still our slave for four 
da3"s more ; and when 3^ou take us to the depot, we will 
then consult upon the length of the leave of absence to be 
allowed 3 011.” 

Joanna, who soon after entered the room, looked pale 
and harassed. If I had said to her there, in her mother’s 
presence, “Come, and be m3^ wife,” she would have 
answered: “Yes.” 

Why did T not do this? I am not quite clear in m3’ 
own mind about it. I remained silent, principall3’ from 
love, from bashfulness, and also from a sense of honor. It 
had now become evident to me, that 1, without wishing to 
do so, had given people a false idea of my pecuniary cir- 
cumstances; I also knew that Joanna, in China, as my 
wife, would lead an entirel3’ different life, far drearier, than 


ALL IN VAIN. 


19 


the one to which she liad always been accustomed. I was 
afraid of possible, unjust, but nevertheless justifiable, re- 
proaches. I regretted, as never before, that I was not a 
wealthy man and — I remained silent. 

The last evening of our life together in Tharen 
arrived. As I entered the apartment in which I had spent 
the onl}" liappy weeks of my life, Joanna alone came for- 
ward to meet me. 

Her mother and sister had gone out to make a few 
})arting calls ; she had remained at home to receive any 
chance visitors. 

I noticed at once that the maii}^ elegant trifies with which 
the room had previously been adorned had disappeared. 
The table, which had always been strewed with books, maga^ 
zines and photographs, now stood bare and empty. The 
tasteless, gay-colored cover which lay upon it affected me 
unpleasantly. The whole apartment, in which everything 
before had been so cosey, now looked cold and dreary. It 
all depressed me. Even Joanna, in a dark traveling-dress 
which I had never seen before, seemed grave, solemn, 
strange, to me. 

“ Come out on the balcony,” I said. “It looks entirely 
too melancholy here.” She stepped slowly forward, with- 
out uttering a word, and I followed her. 

It was a still, balmy, summer’s night. The street at 
our feet was deserted. The mournful cry of a night bird 
came to m3' ears from the distance. I heard the muffled 
soughing of the wind in the old trees in the park, and I 
heard distinctl}' the beating of m3' own heart. I felt that 
m3' life was being decided ; a thousand confused thoughts 
passed through my brain. I forgot the future and the 
past, to live only in the present by the side of the girl 
whom I loved with the whole strength of m3' soul, who 
caused me to forget all else on earth. 


20 


ALL IN VAIN. 


We stood there long silent beside each other; then 
she partly turned toward me, and by the dim light that 
shone from the room I saw her pale face wet with tears. 

I grasped her cold little hand. All at once I knew 
that she loved me, and I cared for nothing more. “ J oanna,’’ 
I exclaimed in a low tone, “why are you weeping?” She 
hid her face on my shoulder and wept still more violentl}^ : 
“ Alas, what will become of me when I see you no more, — 
Henry, Henry, do not forsake me ! ” 

My heart was full to bursting. I knew no longer 
what I said! I cannot describe what I felt. But Joanna 
finally grew calm ; she held my right hand between both 
of hers, and clung to me confidingly. Her wondrously 
beautiful brown eyes shone with love, devotion, confidence 
and delight. Oh, the glance of a girl who loves ! Who 
can describe it, and what man upon whom it has ever 
rested can ever forget it ! “Speak,” she said, “speak ! ” 

had again regained control of myself, and in a few 
words I explained my circumstances to her. I told her 
that my pecuniary alfairs would not allow me to settle in 
Europe at once, and that, in order to be able to do this, I 
should be obliged to return to China for a few 3'ears more ; 
that I should be imposing too great a sacrifice upon her, if 
I should ask her today to accompany- me out there as m}^ 
wife, but that now, with a glorious aim before m3" e3"es, I 
should work with new energ3" and pleasure, and was con- 
vinced of a speedy and complete success. 

She listened to me with a smile, apparentl3" attentive. 
I believe, however, that she hardl3" understood me. She 
interrupted me several times : “ How kind 3 ou are to tell 

me all this ; I have not the slightest right to know it ; 1 
only wish to hear that 3^011 love me. I have been very 
wretched since that evening when 3"Ou said to me that you 
were going to leave us. Now I am happ3\” 


1 


ALL IX VAIN. 


21 


But my heart was light, for I now had told her the 
whole truth ; and joyfully and proudly I press^^d her to my 
heart. “I will write to your mother tomorrow,” I said. 
“ It would be impossible for me to speak calmly with her 
today.” 

“You know best in everything,” she replied; “do as 
you wish.” 

I hastened home. My blood was burning in my 
veins. I was in a fever, as it were, and in this excited 
frame of mind I sat down and sketched out a long letter to 
Mrs. von Norman. Then I wrote it out carefully, so that 
it might be read and comprehended without difficulty. I 
was conscious of no dishonorable intentions, and I wished 
to say what I had to say, plainty and distinctly. I have 
read the rough draught of my letter again and again. It 
was the letter of an honest, loving man, and I cannot 
regret having written it. 

The morning light was already stealing into my 
chamber when at last I laid down my pen. But sleep was 
not to be thought of I walked up and down the room, 
going over in my mind what I had said to Joanna, and 
what she had replied. Then I changed my clothes and 
went to the depot, to bid farewell to my friends. I had to 
wait there quite a long while, for I had come much too 
early. The waiting-room filled slowly ; at the right time 
Mrs. von Norman’s servant appeared with the baggage, 
and soon afterwards, at the extreme end of the street, I 
recognized the slender figure of my dear one. My blood 
stopped circulating for a moment, and I felt that I became 
deathly pale. I had at that time a warm, loving heart. 
Anyone of a calmer temperament could hardly compre- 
hend my weakness. 

Mrs. von Norman greeted me with her customary 
aflTability, yet it seemed to me as if she were somewhat 


22 


ALL IN VAIN. 


constrained. 1 wanted to ask Joanna if she had spoken to 
her mother, but I could find no opportunity. A great 
many friends and acquaintances had assembled to say 
goodbye to the von Norman family, and Joanna was con- 
tinually in demand. She seemed bright and cheerful, and 
laughed and talked louder than usual. Our eyes frequently 
met, and what I read in hers tranquillized me. When 
I pressed her hand in farewell, she said to me rapidly, in a 
low A^oice, ‘‘All is well.” And yet my heart was filled 
with forebodings, I knew not why. 

In the same way I could exchange only a few words 
with Mrs. von Norman. “We hope soon to hear from you 
and to see you soon again,” she said. A few minutes later 
everything had become silent around me, and I was stand- 
ing alone on the platform. I went slowly to the postoffice 
to mail the letter to Mrs. von Norman. When I saw it 
slide into the letter-box I murmured softly : “ Grod send 

me a favorable answer ! ” 

One day elapsed before the reph' arrived, as I had re- 
quested, in Tharen. Wlien I finally held it in my trembling 
hands my heart throbbed violently. I tore open the 
envelope and read the heading, “My Dear Friend,” then 
the subscription, “Your Sincere Friend.” In a few seconds 
I had grasped the contents of the four-page letter, without 
having actually read a single line. I knew that my peti- 
tion was refused. I walked rapidly to and fro in my room 
several times. I made an attempt to light a cigar, as if I 
wanted to prove to myself that nothing unusual had 
occurred, that I was entirely calm. But I was not calm. 
The mirror before which I was standing with the lighted 
match, and into which I glanced involuntarily, showed me 
a face that stared at me like that of a stranger in a terrible 
state of excitement. 

I sat down at last and read the letter througli from 


ALL IN VAIN. 


23 


beginning to end. It was tlie letter of a kind, prudent 
mother. She did me more than justice ; she wrote that my 
proposal honored her daughter, and that she, the mother, 
was proud of it, and grateful to me ; ‘‘but,” she continued, 
“ the solemn, sacred responsibilities that rest upon me, for- 
bid me to accept or even to encourage 3"Our suit. You are 
ten 3^ears older than Joanna, and she is at an age when a 
speed3’ marriage is desirable for her, as well as for her future 
husband. I have no intention of imposing an3' restraint of 
an3^ kind upon m3" daughter. She shall 01113" many the 
man to whom she gives her entire heart, and to whom she 
will gladly entrust herself But, in order to secure her 
this complete freedom w"hich 3-011 also claim for her, T 
must beware of a premature engagement. You wish to 
remain a few months longer in Europe, and you assume 
that 3"our residence in China will last three 3"ears. Accord- 
ing to this, Joanna, as 3"our betrothed, w-ould have to wait 
for 3"ou almost four 3"ears, even under the most favorable 
circumstances. This is a long time, during which 3"our 
sentiments, as well as m3" daughter’s, might undergo an 
entire change. You consider this impossible, at present, 
and this perfect confidence does 3-011 honor; but, as a 
mother, as one older and calmer than 3-ou, I think other- 
wise, and I must protect m3" dearl3- loved child against an3^ 
possibilit3" of breaking or regretting a formal promise. I 
urgentl3" entreat 3-ou, therefore, to relinquish 3-our suit en- 
tirely for the present; I must indeed go still further, I 
must impose it on 3"ou, as a matter of honor, to refrain 
from revealing it to m3" daughter in an3^ wa3". 0nl3" upon 

this condition, which 3-ou will accept as completelv- justifi- 
able later, if not today, can I look forward w-ith tranquillit3" 
and pleasure to a continuation of our relations, hitherto so 
pleasant and friendlv.” 

The letter concluded : “ M3- daughter is free, and 


24 


ALL IN VAIN. 


shall rernain free till her marriage. If you return to 
Europe in four years, if m3" daughters circumstances have 
not altered in the meanwhile, and if 3"our sentiments for 
her then are the same, I will favor 3"Our suit with rejoicing 
and perfect confidence, and welcome 3-011 as a beloved son 
if 3"our offer is accepted by m3" daughter. For tlie present, 
dear friend, I must bid 3 011 farewell with a sad heart. My 
best wishes for 3"our welfare will accompan3" 3-011. 

‘‘Your Sincere Friend, 

“Louise von Norman. 

I remained two weeks longer in Tharen. Everything 
there seemed to me to have undergone a complete trans- 
formation. The season was over; the summer visitors 
were departing ; the streets became empt3" ; the fiowers in 
the hotel garden were withered ; and in the park, where I 
used to meet a meny, noisy crowd, it was deserted and 
silent again. I walked down the broad, beautiful avenues 
where I had so often strolled with Joanna. Then the sun 
was shining and the birds were singing, and I now first 
realized how happ3" T had been. Now the autumn wind 
was scattering the dr3" leaves from the trees, the birds had 
migrated southwards, and a gra3", low-hanging sky brooded 
over the drearv landscape without any promise of brighter 
days. 

1 felt sick and forlorn. In the evening I would betake 
m3"self to the street where Joanna had dwelt. There I 
would stand opposite the dark, lifeless house in which I 
once had found light and life. The windows were closed, 
and the balcoiy-, on which I had stood 1)3- her side in the 
midst of flowers, was bare and empt3". I would remain 
there for hours at a time, and I cannot describe m3" suffer- 
ing. Only he can understand me who has seen the place 
again, desolate and cold, in which a longed for happiness, 
of which he is now bereft, once smiled upon him. 


ALL IN VAIN. 


25 


A fortnight later I went to Paris and rented a room 
there in a small house in the immediate vicinity of Mrs. 
von Norman’s apartments. There I concealed myself like 
a criminal, and peering all day long from the window, I 
watched the house that hid my love from me. 

I saw Joanna go in and out every day. She seemed 
to me unaltered in any way ; she was neither sad nor gay. 
I felt as if a wrong were being done me in this, and fell 
into a regular state of melancholy. I followed her fre- 
quently without ever venturing to approach her, and in 
constant fear of being seen by her. These walks were a 
torment to me, and when I reached my room again, after 
one of them, I would scold m3^self for being such a fool at 
my time of life. But ^^et the next day I followed her 
again. In so doing I lost all my courage and all my self- 
respect. 

One evening, as I was aimless!}" wandering around 
the boulevards, I suddenl}" came across Stratton, an old 
friend from Canton. He took my arm, drew me into a 
restaurant, and plied me with a hundred questions in 
regard to mutual acquaintances in China, and told me 
about his business and pleasures. But he suddenl}- stopped 
in the middle of a sentence, pushed his chair back a little, 
and bent forward to inspect me closel}". 

“What is the matter with you?” he asked. “Have 
you been sick? You look bad.” 

“I am somewhat ailing,” I answered. “I find the 
life here different from what I expected. ...” I did not 
know what to sa}-, and I stopped. 

Stratton waited a moment. Then he said : “If 3-011 
have an3ffhing on 3"our heart that 3-011 do not wish to con- 
fide to me, then keep it to 3"ourself, for God’s sake. But 
do not forget, L’hermet, that we have been through thick 
and thin together and that I consider myself your friend. 


26 


ALL IN VAIN. 


If I can be of use to you in an}" possible way, command 
me. Old China comrades must stand by each other, and 
you can count upon me in every case.” 

I nodded gratefully to him, but could not speak. I 
felt very weak and I believe my eyes became moist. Old 
fellow,” continued Stratton familiarly, “ come over with me 
to England. My brother has a pretty country seat there 
and has invited me over for the hunting. I promise you 
that you will be a welcome guest in his house. I can lend 
you a horse that w-ill fly under your weight. Come ! A brisk 
ride over hedges and ditches is a never-failing remedy for 
melancholy.” 

I did not feel disposed to continue the conversation. 
In order to bring it to a close I replied that I would 
arrange my affairs, and that he would hear from me in 
England in a few days. Thereupon we separated. 

The encounter with Stratton did me good. I compre- 
hended Anally that it was high time to put an end to the 
wretched life which I was leading in Paris. I recovered 
my courage, and left for England. I found there much to 
do which claimed my attention, and from time to time 
diverted my thoughts from Joanna and my sorrow. Strata 
ton, with whom I spent much of my time, proposed to me 
to enter his business, and undertake the management of 
his large establishment in Shanghai. I accepted, and thus 
assumed responsibilities whose fulflllment required a large 
part of my time. With work returned some measure of 
peace. My melancholy subsided, and hope again took up 
its abode with me. ‘‘I have no cause for despair at all,” 
I said to myself ; “ Joanna has promised me her love, and 
fortunately her mother cannot alter this fact. In the sight 
of God she is my betrothed, and she will remain faithful to 
me.” And I recalled her large, true eyes, and thought to 
myself they could never prove treacherous. I wrote to 


AM. IN VAIN. 


27 


Mrs. roil Norman. 1 excused my long silence on the 
ground of the agitation produced by her last letter. I sub- 
mitted to the conditions which she imposed upon a renewal 
of my intercourse with her family. Then I mentioned that 
1 had decided to return to China before the term I had 
originally set had expired, and begged for the permission 
to visit her once more before m 3 " departure, which was 
near at hand. 

The return mail brought me a most cordial repl}^ 
M}" relations to Joanna were not touched upon b 3 " a single 
word in it. Mrs. von Norman wrote me that she and the 
children — who sent me their kindest regards — would never 
forgive me if I should leave Europe without bidding them 
farewell. 

After spending another month in London in feverish 
activit}", during which time I exchanged several friendly 
letters with Mrs. von Norman, I was able at last one da}" 
to announce to her that I should arrive in Paris on the 
23d of November, remain there a couple of daj^s, and, on 
the 26th, leave for China by way of Marseilles and Suez. 

I arrived in Paris at the appointed da}" and hour. 
Mrs. von Norman was waiting for me at the depot. She 
pressed my hand cordially and significantly. 

‘>1 thank you for coming,” she said. “I see in it a 
proof that you approve of my course of action.” This was 
the only reference to what had passed since our separation 
in Tharen. She then led the conversation so decidedly to 
other topics that it was evident to me that she was acting 
according to a preconceived, well-considered plan. As she 
was completely justified in regarding my coming as an un- 
conditional acceptance of her decision, I was obliged to 
allow her to guide the conversation ^ according to her 
judgment. 

I stopped this time at one of the large hotels in the Rue 


28 


ALL IN VAIN. 


(le la Paix, and in the evening betook myself to Mrs. von 
Norman’s. Joanna became as pale as death when I entered 
the room, and did not stir from the chair in which she was 
sitting. When I bade her good evening she held m3' hand 
fast a moment and pressed it vehemently. Her voice, when 
she spoke to me, had a peculiar unfamiliar ring. Her eyes 
nev6r left me ; again and again I encountered their inquir- 
ing and, to a certain degree, demanding glance. She did 
not appear concerned about the presence of her mother 
and sister. It almost seemed to me as if she had made 
some agreement with her mother, b}' which the latter was 
to allow her to receive me, this last evening, according to 
her own wishes and sentiments. Her whole being revealed 
the fact that she was struggling with an intense inward ex- 
citement, and that her external composure was mereh' 
hanging by a thread which might break at an3' moment. 
Mrs. von Norman seemed to wish to avoid, at an3' price, 
the painful scene which would have been the consequence 
of this, and made a point of not opposing her daughter in 
any wa}'. She dwelt upon the continuance of our friendl}^ 
relations in her conversation with me. She wrote down 
m3' exact address in China ; she made a note of the dates 
on which letters would have to be mailed in Paris in order 
not to miss the mail steamer at Marseilles. Hut as soon 
as J oanna began to speak her mother was silent, evidentl3' 
resolved to allow her daughter full libert3' in her presence 
and not to anno3' her in an3' wa3'. Joanna’s younger sister 
sat there silent and embarrassed. 

In the course of the evening Joanna managed to slip 
a note into my hand, unperceived by her mother. From 
this moment I had no more peace. After a few minutes 
had passed I arose to take leave. Mrs. von Norman and 
her 3'oungest daughter had arisen simultaneousl3' with 
me. Joanna remained seated, and her pale face became 


ALL IN VAIN. 


20 


still paler. I shook hands with Mrs. von Norman and 
Joanna's sister. Then I approached Joanna. She arose 
slowly, and, supporting herself by her left hand upon the 
table, she extended her right hand to me. “Farewell,” she 
said slowly, “ Farewell till we meet again — do not forget 
me.” I was only al)le to bow silently. 

As soon as I had left the room, b}^ the light of the 
gas jet that lighted the steps, I read the letter which 
Joanna had given me. It contained onl}" a few lines. She 
wrote me that she knew everything that had passed be- 
tween her mother and myself ; she entreated me not to be 
angry with her mother, and to keep my love for her, 
Joanna. “I shall be faithful to 3^ou,” she concluded. “I 
love you alone, and can never love but j^ou ; and in three 
3"ears or thirty years, as long as I live, as soon as you sa}^. 
Come to me, I will follow you. May the thought of the 
one who loves you increase 3^our energ}^ and j^our courage ; 
ma}" it lighten the tasks which 3^ou are undertaking for my 
sake, and maj^ it aid you to reacli soon, ah, very soon, the 
goal to which 3^011 aspire, and on which depends the whole 
happiness of my life ; and love me as I shall alwa3^s love 
3^011.” She had signed the letter with her full name, 
“Joanna von Nonnan.” 

I preserved the letter — I have it to this da3' in my 
possession. I have read it certainl3" a thousand times, and 
I still read it occasionally. I know ever3" word, every let- 
ter in it. I have tried to interpret it in every wa3’', but I 
have never been able to find anything in it but the candid 
expression of the perfect love and devotion of a noble 
character. 

I left Paris the next morning. Up to the last moment 
1 kept expecting some manifestation from Joanna. I told 
myself that this hope was unreasonable, but nevertheless I 
still hoped on. Even when I was seated in the train, I 


80 


ALL TN VAIX. 


still ^azed anxiously around to see if 1 could discover her 
in the depot. I saw nothing more of her. 

* * 

* 

The voyage from Marseilles to Shanghai, the place of 
my destination, lasted fort3^-eight days, and interested me 
blit little. I had already seen Malta and Egypt, Aden, 
Ce^don and Singapore, twice ; and Arabs, Moors and 
Indians were all alike inditferent to me. Neither did I 
make any new acquaintances on board the steamers, and I 
arrived at length in China, bored and wearv. From Hong 
Kong I wrote to Mrs. von Norman for the first time. My 
letter was a description of my voyage ; I only ventured to 
refer to her daughter by sending her my regards at the 
close of the letter. 

In Shanghai I found plenty to do ; but work was now 
m}^ only pleasure, my onl^" recreation. I had onl}" one 
aim before me, — to make money rapidl^^, so as to l)e able 
to return to Europe soon. When a man of determination, 
such as I was at that time, bends his will to one thing 
alone, when he has the courage to consider everything 
foreign to this purpose as of secondar}" importance, it is 
rarely the case that he does not accomplish this end. M}' 
efforts were crowned with rapid and abundant success. By 
each mail I was able to make a favorable report to Mrs. 
von Norman upon the progress of my business affairs ; and 
with considerable regularity, although not so frequentl}^ as 
I wrote, I received friendly letters from her. She wished 
me success in m3" undertakings, in which she seemed to 
take an active interest; she gave me friendl3", motherly 
advice : I must take care of m3" health, I must not over- 
work, I must act with prudence and not expose myself to 
the danger of losing at one stroke what I had amassed so 
toilsomely. Each one of her letters contained a few words 


ALL IN VAIN. 


31 


about her daughters. Each time it was the same sentence : 
‘‘ My daughters are well ; they keep you in friendly 
remembrance and send you their best wishes.” I always 
read these lines with especial attention, and endeavored to 
discover a concealed meaning in them: daughters 

are well ; they keep you in friendly remembrance,” — that 
is to sa}', ‘‘Joanna has forgotten nothing, she will keep her 
promise; I can rely upon her implicitly.” Love demands 
much and is content with little. From Joanna herself I 
heard nothing during this time. Many a time this thought 
troubled me ; but then I endeavored to console myself b}' 
sa3ing to my heart that her mother had probably com- 
pelled her to promise not to write to me. And with this I 
became tranquil. I was so secure of my own fidelit}" that 
it was difficult for me to believe in the disloyalty of my 
loved one. 

My business, in the meanwhile, continued its course 
uninterruptedly. My neighbors spoke with respect, and 
not without some envy, of my successful efforts. In the 
course of two ^^ears I saw myself in possession of a by no 
means insignificant fortune. I began the third year with 
the best trade that had been known in China for years, and 
in a few months it more than doubled my capital. I was 
now a rich man ; I was richer than I had ever hoped to 
become. I can hardly describe the sensation of inward 
satisfaction with which I looked over the balance-sheet, so 
neatly written out by the bookkeeper. I revelled in the 
large, handsome figures that asserted with mathematical 
exactness that I had now accomplished my purpose. Like 
a miser, I would have liked to behold my wealth lying in 
gold before me, and to fondle it. I had never wavered in 
my original determination to return to Europe at the 
earliest possible moment. Now I could allow myself to 
think of an immediate* execution of my plan. It was now 


32 


ALL IN VAIN. 


only a question of winding np rapidly the few remaining 
enterprises, or, where this was not possible, of bringing 
them into such a shape that I could with a quiet mind 
leave them to another to be disposed of. I calculated that 
I should require three months for this. It was the month 
of March; in June or July, at the latest in August, I 
could leave China, and in October, exactly three years 
since my departure from Europe, 1 might count with cer- 
tainty upon arriving there again. I seated myself to im- 
part this intelligence at once to Mrs. von Norman. During 
the last six weeks I had been living as if in a fever, and, 
for the first time since my arrival in China, I had not 
written to Paris for a whole month. Upon reading the 
cop 3 ^ of my last letter, I noticed that it referred to a letter 
from Mrs. von Norman, four weeks old at the time of 
writing, as the latest news received from her. A month 
had passed away, since that time, so rapidly that I had 
forgotten this. 

I now felt somewhat disturbed by this circum- 
stance, for Mrs. von Norman had always written me 
once, and often twice, in each month, and now I had been 
eight weeks without news from her. I read over again the 
last letter which I had received from her. It did not con- 
tain an} thing to make me uneasy, nor to tranquillize me. 
It had been written in the latter part of December and had 
brought me good wishes for the corning ^^ear. M}' chil- 
dren,” it said as usual, “are well and wish to be cordiallv 
remembered to you.” Then came a description of some 
parties, especially one, a large ball, at which a royal prince 
had especially distinguished Mrs. von Norman’s second 
daughter, eighteen 3 ^ears of age. Nothing was said in 
regard to Joanna. Depressed, I laid the letter aside, and 
wrote only a few lines myself, in which I announced m}^ 
proposed arrival in the coming autumn, and postponed 


ALL IN VAIN. 


33 


giving the exact date of iny departure from Shanghai till 
a later communication. 

Neither did the next mail bring me any news from 
Paris. Now I really was alarmed, and the fortnight which 
had to elapse before the arrival of the next mail steamer 
seemed horribly long to me. But 1 was only impatient. 
There was no reason for serious apprehension. The last 
letter from Mrs. von Norman was as friendly and cordial as 
all her letters had been for two years. 

One morning, my Chinese servant came into my room 
very early, and announced that the mail steamer had been 
signaled as having just arrived in Woosung, and was 
expected in Shanghai in a couple of hours. 

I sprang out of bed, dressed myself in the greatest 
haste, as if I had not a moment to lose, had my horse sad- - 
died, and rode along the Whampoa Biver toward the 
steamer. It was a glorious morning, and I felt fresh and 
strong. My brave little pony leaped gaily over hedges and 
ditches, and seemed to be, like myself, in a good and liveW 
humor. “If we were going hunting today,” I said as I 
patted his short, sturdy neck, “ we would not be among the 
last ones.” He seemed to understand me, and want to 
show himself worthy of my commendation, and, like an 
arrow, we sped along over the level ground. I have never 
had another such line ride since that day. 

At last I saw the steamer approaching, majestic and 
powerful, breasting the swift-flowing current. I surveyed 
it for an instant. From the mainmast floated the red flag 
with the golden anchor, the signal that the ship had the 
European mail on board. I turned around and rode back 
home. 

The hour which had yet to pass before the letters 
could be distributed seemed as if it never would end. I 
wandered like a restless spirit from room to room. At 


34 


ALL IN VAIN. 


last the Chinese office-l)oy brought me the first batch of 
distributed letters. I slipped the envelopes quickly through 
my hands : the so-anxiously-expected letter was still want- 
ing. I had seated my self at my desk, and now began to 
open and read the letters just brought in, in systematic 
order. 

Stern, my bookkeeper, an old friend and fellow-worker, 
from whom I had no business secrets, came from the office 
and seated himself, according to his usual custom, at a 
small table behind m3' desk, in order to read there himself 
the letters just read and annotated 1)3' me, and to discuss 
with me at once, if necessar3', the requisite steps to be 
taken. 

The errand bo3^ brought the second parcel of distrib- 
uted letters. I recognized at once Mrs. von Norman’s 
large, handsome handwriting upon one of the A^er3' first en- 
velopes. Stern had come to m3' side, and started to make 
some remark in regard to a letter he had just read. I 
listened to him mechanically, but did not comprehend a 
word of what he was sa3'ing. “ Excuse me a moment, dear ; 
Stern,” I said, “I should like to read a few private letters.” 
The bookkeeper quietl3" gathered up the letters 13'ing 
before me, which I had already read, and seated himself 
again at his place behind my desk, whose high back con- 
cealed me from him. 

As soon as I opened Mrs. von Norman’s letter I felt 
that it contained bad news. My e3'es flew over the lines ; 
the clear, firm handwriting showed me what I was looking 
for at the first glance : Joanna — engagement — M. de Cis- 
sa3'e. I saw no more. Ever3'thing swam before m3' eyes. 
But I recovered m3'self immediatel3'. A deep silence 
reigned in the small room in which I was sitting. I heard 
Stern folding letters and papers. I heard the regular 
movement of the pendulum in the tall clock against the 


ALL IN VAIN. 


35 


wall. I knew that I rested my forehead upon my hand, 
and looked attentively out of the window, where business 
men and errand boys were hurrying past with papers, let- 
ters and parcels in their hands. Beyond, the yellow 
waters of the swift^flowing Whampoa were rushing to the 
sea; hundreds of red sampan boats were passing in all 
directions upon the river. I heard the shrill cries with 
which the dock hands accompanied their laborious tasks. 
I heard the hissing of the recently-arrived steamer, as it 
let olf its steam. The noise and the din reached my ears 
as if they came from a long distance. But I hearkened 
attentively as if it were necessary to discover some hidden 
meaning in the confused jumble of noises. Nothing was 
stirring in the room. Outside all was life and busy stir, 
inside everything was unnaturally still and dead. It 
seemed as if I were under the influence of a bad dream. 
I knew that some calamity had befallen me, that all my 
happiness was at an end, but still I could not clearly com- 
prehend the nature of the wound that was causing me 
suffering. I only felt that I was wounded, grievously 
wounded. 

I took up the letter again, folded it with great care 
and attempted to put it into the envelope in which it had 
come. My hands were trembling, and the thin envelope 
tore. I then put the letter in my pocket, and began anew 
j to read and arrange my business papers : silk — tea — opium 
I — rice — I saw the words, but of their relation to myself I 
i knew nought. I comprehended nothing. The world had 
\ all at once become utterly changed. I no longer cared for 

( anything. 

I turned my chair around to the window, so that 
I Stern, even if he should come to my desk, could not see 
f! my face; then I took the fatal letter again out of my 
i| pocket, and re-read it, first superficially, and then, concern 


36 


ALL IN VAIN. 


trating m3" attention by a great effort, read it through from 
beginning to end. As if in a dream, I heard Stern come to 
m3" desk and pick out from among the papers the letters I 
had opened, and then silently reseat himself at his table. 

Mrs. von Norman’s letter was a long, carefully com- 
posed epistle. She began with excuses and explanations 
of her long silence ; then she wrote a few lines in regard 
to her cares as the mother of two grown-up daughters ; and 
after this introduction she came abruptl3^ to the purpose of 
her letter, and announced to me, in a few words, that 
J oanna had been honored b3" an offer of marriage from one 
M. de Cissa3"e, Secretary of the Legation at the Russian 
Court, which she had accepted. “ I did not attempt to 
influence my daughter’s choice in any way,” she continued, 
“but I wholly approve of it, and have cause to rejoice over 
it. It is true that this marriage destroys certain plans 
ver3" dear to me, which I have long cherished in the depths 
of m3" heart ; but I have never had an3fthing but the hap- 
piness of my beloved child in view, and I must hope that 
I have acted for the best as regards her happiness. I am 
confident, dear friend, that my daughter has also 3^our 
wishes for her future welfare.” 

I dropped the letter in m3^ lap, and sat brooding in 
silence a long while. 

Suddenly I felt some one touch me. I turned slowly 
around and looked up. Stern was standing beside me. 
“What is the matter ! ” he exclaimed, starting back, “You 
have received bad news ! ” I do not know how the words 
came to me: “All m3" happiness is lost forever,” I said, 
and buried m3^ face in m3’' hands. Stern drew near again, 
and I felt the kindl3^ pressure of his hands upon my 
shoulder. “You ma3^ read the other letters, please,” I said, 
without turning around. “I should like to go to my 
room.” “ Certainly,” he quickly replied. “Give yourself 


ALL IN VAIN. 


37 


no uneasiness about the business. I can look after every- 
thing.” I heard him collect the letters on my desk and 
then approach the door. There he stopped. “ Can I do 
anything else for you? ” he inquired hesitatingly and 
gently. “Thank you, no,” I replied. “Only I would like 
not to be disturbed again today.” 

All became silent, and after a few minutes I went up 
stairs to my bedroom, where I locked myself in. There I 
sat the whole day long, drinking the cup of sorrow to the 
dregs. 

Nicholas Gogol wrote a sad little story : “ The Cloak,” 
which I have often read. It tells about a petty govern- 
ment official in Russia, who economizes for years to be 
able to purchase a new fur cloak. The poor fellow endures 
the greatest sacrifices in order to accomplish his purpose. 
At last he comes into possession of the precious gaimient. 
He appears in it on the streets of Moscow the following 
Sunday. When he is returning home at evening he is 
attacked by brigands, who rob him of the cloak so hardly 
won. He cannot bear his loss, he falls sick, takes to his 
bed, and dies. I kept thinking of this forlorn hero all the 
time. “They have taken my cloak away from me,” I said, 
and it seemed to me as if there were nothing left for me to 
do but to lie down and die. Then I began to be ashamed 
of my grief, and to fear that it might be noticed by 
strangers. I wanted neither sympathy nor pity. The 
treasure I had lost had no more value in others’ eyes than 
had the poor Russian’s cloak in mine. I wrote a few lines 
to Stern and sent them to him by the servant: “Dear 
friend, do not mention the loss I have sustained to anyone. 
I will tell you later the reasons why I impose silence 
upon you.” 

Human nature, thank God ! is too weak to be able to 
endure great griefs for very long. The wounded heart 


38 


ALL IN VAIN. 


breaks or it heals again. My recovery was slow, and I 
feel that the best that was in me is dead; but I became 
strong enough again to be able to endure life. For several 
weeks I crept around, sad and solitary. The faithful Stern 
took care of me like a sick brother; but, nevertheless, I 
did not wish to confide my sorrow even to him. 

My friends and acquaintances might have discussed 
among themselves what it was that had changed me so 
suddenly. But out here people are not so inquisitive as 
in Europe ; as a general thing they respect their neighbor’s 
secret, as long as this secret has nothing to do with his 
commercial credit ; and no one asked me any inconsiderate 
questions. “L’hermet has lost a friend, some near rela- 
tive,” they thought, and were easily satisfied with this 
explanation. 

I relinquished for the present my plan of returning to 
Europe. I concluded to settle down for good in the east. 
I bought a place in Japan ; I began to travel, visited 
India, Batavia, Manilla, and traveled over a large part of 
China. I saw nothing which could remind me of my loss ; 
I saw and experienced many things that consoled me for 
it. My life is tranquil now. 

One day I had left Shanghai in a boat to visit the 
great lakes of Taihoe. In the evening we anchored in the 
canal, in the vicinity of a large city. I arose the next 
morning at daybreak, in order to escape the curiosity of 
the natives while viewing the place. Near the entrance to 
the city I saw a building which attracted my attention. It 
was a kind of round, open temple, whose heavy, profusely 
decorated roof rested upon stout wooden pillars. The 
floor was covered with straw, and upon this straw I saw 
about twenty ragged people lying. Some of them were 
sleeping, while the rest had partially risen and were 
greedily devouring the contents of large wooden dishes 


ALL IN VAIN. 


39 


full of rice, which had been placed beside the resting-place 
of each one. A watchman, with a pipe in his mouth, was 
slowly making the rounds of the temple, glancing occa- 
sionally at the rising sun. I asked the Chinese servant, 
who accompanied me, what this spectacle meant. He 
made inquiry of the watchman and presentl}^ brought me 
the intelligence that the building had been erected by a 
wealthy and benevolent merchant, who offered its shelter 
for one night to all the beggars and vagrants who might 
be passing through the city, and presented them with a 
breakfast in the morning. “ The guests must go on their 
way one hour after sunrise and leave the city, and they 
are only allowed to present themselves here once in the 
course of a month. They are to find rest here, to enable 
them to continue their journey the next day. The watch- 
man will soon wake them up now, for the sun indicates the 
hour when they must all start.” Then he directed my 
attention to a black wooden shield, hanging between two 
of the pillars, which bore a brief Chinese inscription. He 
translated it for me : ‘‘Rest for the weary wanderer.” 

The watchman, in the meanwhile, had been engaged 
in arousing the sleepers, by pushing them gently with his 
foot, without the slightest brutality, until they opened their 
weary eyes. They were wretched creatures, these poor 
wanderers, such as are to be found only in China : covered 
with rags, frightfully emaciated, poverty and suffering in 
every look and movement. Each one hastily grasped the 
brimming dish that stood beside him, swallowed its con- 
tents, and prepared to leave the hospitable shelter which 
had given him a brief, rare, and longed-for repose. One of 
tlie sleepers would not awake, however, and paid no atten- 
tion to the watchman. The latter pushed him gently, then 
more violently ; called to him, shook him — he still re- 
mained motionless. I looked into the cold, quiet, yellow, 


40 


ALL IN VAIN. 


wretched face. The man was dead. “ Rest at last, weary 
wanderer.” The watchman covered the body with an old 
straw mat and departed with lingering steps. All misery 
has an end, and even to the poorest there comes at last 
peace and rest. I, too, have found peace. 

Long 3 ears have passed since the calamity befell me. 
During this time I have been in Europe twice. I have not 
sought for Joanna, nor have I seen her. I am not afraid 
to meet her. I hardl^^ believe that an^^ emotion would stir 
me. All the evil which she could inflict upon me was done 
years ago. Her image has become fainter and fainter; 
but 3^et I often think of her still. I do not imagine that 
she is unhappy", and I wish her peace and happiness. But 
when I see her, as she la}^ on my breast on the balcony at 
Tharen, and wept : ‘‘ Henr}^, Henry, do not forsake me ! ” 

when I reflect that for her, and for her alone, I toiled and 
worried earl^^ and late, and that m3" faithful, manl3" love, 
for which she once had plead, was afterwards rejected so 
cruell3% I clench m3" flsts and sa3", ‘‘ Unhapp3^ girl ! ” 

Often I see her as in a dream. She is pale and beau- 
tiful as on the day when I bade her farewell. When she 
sees me she stops and a deadl3’ fear seems to rivet her to 
the floor. Her wondrous e3^es are open wide, and her gaze 
rests flxedl3" upon me. I pass her b3^ with a low bow. But 
all at once I am obliged to stop. I hear a beloved voice 
which calls to me, ‘‘Henry, Henr3" ! ” I turn around. 
She is still standing on the same spot, she is still look- 
ing at me, and her eyes are full of an inexpressible 
sorrow. “Henry, Henry !” The name recalls to m3" mem- 
ory the long past 3"ears of my joyless youth. I am 
now old and I am alone. No one calls me Henry any 
more ; for years no one has called me thus : “ Henr3", 

Henr3^ ! ” The remembrance of m3" lost happiness assails 
me with irresistible power. I cannot turn my 03 es away 


ALL tN YAIN. 


41 


from her. There she stands before me, and it seems to me 
as if her gaze were imploring sj^mpathy and forgiveness. 
I draw near to her, speak to her, and at this moment my 
dream comes to an end. My imagination stops short, I 
do not know what I should have said — whether I should 
have entreated, reproached or spoken in anger. The pale 
apparition grows paler and paler, it vanishes, and I awake. 
But it does not leave me entirely ; this dream has become 
a part of my life. It repeats itself with a certain regular- 
ity ; it even seems to me that it returns more and more 
frequently. And I know that the apparition will appear 
to me again when I am l3dng upon my death-bed. ,.It will 
then rise before me, pale and beautiful, and the beloved 
voice will call for the last time : “ Henry, Henry ! ” And 
when I awake from that sleep I shall at last find words to 
finish my dream: “Joanna, I loved you on earth with 
infinite sorrow. Give me now the happiness which you 
promised me.” 

* * 

* 

My friend was silent and a painful pause ensued. 
The full moon was at the zenith, and all around the silent 
land was sleeping in its wondrous light. It had grown 
late. The Japanese servant, who had been asleep in the 
corner of the piazza, had awakened, and busied himself in 
clearing off the table at which we had supped. A lighted 
candle was standing upon this table. A moth, which had 
approached too close to it, had been caught in the fiame, 
and struggled in vain against the consuming fire. In order 
to put the insect out of its misery L’hermet pushed it with 
a little stick into the heart of the fiame. “Poor little 
creature,” said he; “if you had remained in your dark 
corner, you could have lived and died there in peace, with- 
out knowing pain. The brilliant fiame fascinated you, and 


42 


ALL IN VAIN. 


you die in torment, because you came in contact with it 
for one brief moment.” 

We had both arisen. L’hermet pressed my hand and 
wished me good night. 

The next morning I left Yokohama. 


y FIRST LOVE. 

[From the German of Rudolf Lindau.] 


Copyright, 1885, by l. schick. 



I have led a wandering life for years, and am most at 
home in railroad cars, waiting-rooms, hotels and res- 
taurants. I read all sorts of things as I go along, and 
have given up trying to be particular in my read- 
ing. English, German and French novels and stories 
authors whose names are unfamiliar to me, or whose 
style of writing is unpleasant to me, inspire me with 
an unconquerable respect. Books by these writers I do 
not venture to open, even at moments of the greatest 
dearth of reading matter. With this exception I seize 
everything that the newsboys are crying, and I glance 
through every weekly or monthl}^ publication I come 
across in eating or reading room. Hence it happens that 
I have continually in my head the fragments of a consider- 
able number of stories, and as I have no especial interest 
in their classification, it occurs sometimes that I connect 
the beginning of one with the end of another. Some of 
these checkered stories please me just as well as familiar 
novels by popular authors. This is a matter of taste, and 
I do not pass any criticism. Sometimes I even conclude 
certain stories whose beginning I have read, or invent for 
myself the first chapters to fit the conclusion of a novel 
that has fallen into my hands. After some time it becomes 
diflftcult for me to distinguish between what is mine and what 
is not mine. In most cases, however, when I leave a city 


8 


FIRST LOVE. 


raise my eyes, but I would have been willing to go through 
fire and water a thousand times to draw the lovely girl’s 
solicitous gaze again upon me. In the evening I ascribed 
in imagination the most marvelous deeds of heroism to 
myself, by which I would arouse her astonishment and 
compel her admiration. I did not long for nor expect 
anything else. The unconscious dawning of love in the 
heart of 3"outh is, with all its peculiarities, nothing but 
sheer childishness. The 3^oung heart is foolishly fond of 
sacrifices, touchingly" content with little, and obstinately^ 
egotistic and conceited. It is not yet capable of loving, 
but it hungers to be loved^ to be admired. To make 
another happy is not its aim, and the only happiness it 
knows is a blissful unrest; its only craving : to receive love 
without giving love. In after years we give without re- 
ceiving, with a fair measure of content. Thus everything 
is arranged for the best in this world, in which there are 
some people who are glad to give, and others who find 
their joy in receiving. But what a rare, brief, blessed 
time, the time when one gives and receives, when one loves 
and is loved ! I have known it, but she who made me so 
inexpressibly^ li^PPy then has forsaken me now. How 
beautiful the world was when I looked at it with her ! How 
blue the sky, how soft the air ! Hand in hand we has- 
tened from place to place, and wherever we went, joy" came 
smiling forth to meet us, and pleasure invited us to linger. 
We went laughing, singing, rejoicing on our way, secure in 
our happiness every' where. We at times carried our gaiety' 
too far, and our boisterous mirth startled graver people. 
But their severe glance grew mild when it rested upon us. 
“They" are y'oung, let them enjoy themselves,” the old folks 
said, and went on their way with a mournful smile. She 
clung so closely to my arm, she nestled so lovingly to my 
side, I thought I never could lose her. The thought of a 


FIRST LOVE. 


9 


possible change never entered my mind, never troubled 
me. Thus I lived for a long while. Weeks, months, years 
flew past, without my noticing it. 

“One evening, after we had spent the day even more 
noisil}^ and merrily than usual, she seemed all of a sudden 
to become cold and out of humor. A fearful anxiety, 
which I am unable to describe, overwhelmed me. An ice- 
cold perspiration broke out all over me. ^ She is going to 
leave me,’ I said to myself; ^certainly, surely she is going 
to leave me ! ’ It occurred to me then how little I had 
really troubled myself about her; that I had, perhaps, 
demanded too much of her attachment and fidelity. For 
the first time I felt my confidence in myself and in her 
wavering, and I gazed anxiously and scrutinizingly into 
her eyes. But her glance wandered wearily away from 
me and gave me no reply. My peace was gone, my life 
was changed. She, indeed, occasionally pressed me impet- 
uously to her breast still, but the sweetness of her kisses 
had vanished. She would often push me coldly away, and 
I saw, to my unutterable pain, that my love wearied her. 
And one night, when I came home late, fatigued and de- 
jected, I found the room dark, cold and vacant, — she, my 
joy, my light, my all, had disappeared. 

“ Now ensued a wretched existence forme. The loss 
which I had sustained gnawed at my heart, but my care 
was to conceal this loss from the world. I endeavored to 
wear a pleasant, happy countenance. I sought the society 
of ga}^ young people. I spent the greatest care upon my 
appearance and my attire, a thing heretofore unknown to 
me, and which I would once have ridiculed. My enemies 
even accuse me of having painted my cheeks for awhile, 
to conceal their pallor. This is not true, but I must 
acknowledge that I did buy a small bottle of a newly 
invented tincture which was to restore to my hair, now 


10 


FIRST LOVE. 


growing gray, the color of youth. This hypocrisy and 
masquerading did not last veiy long. I soon grew weary 
of it all, and what the world says womes me no longer, 
nowadays. I know that my beloved has forsaken me, that 
nothing will bring her back, and anyone who knows me 
can be aware of it and recognize my loss by my appearance. 
But I am still constantly lamenting my lost one. I miss 
her everywhere; nothing, nothing can replace her in my 
heart, and I would gladly give everything that I possess, 
every pleasure and every happiness that may be yet in 
store for me, to be able to call her mine once more, to live 
over again that brief, beautiful time during which alone 
I was happy.” 

Gaston was silent. He gazed fixedly into the d3ing 
embers and rubbed his thin hands slowly together, as was 
his way. 

“ And what was the name of this wonderful creature? ” 
asked the Countess. 

‘^My 3^outh,” Gaston replied, without removing his 
eyes from the fire. 


INDEX TO PAGES 


OF THE 

“COLLECTION SCHICK,” 

on which may be found the first paragraphs of each page of the 
English Translation. 

HANS, THE DREAMER. 


English. 

German. 

English. 

German. 

English. 

German. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

pa(;e. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

5. . 

. . . . 5 

3G. . . 

. . ..30 

G5. . . 


G. . 

. . . . 5 

37. . . 

, . . .31 

GG. . . 

. . .5G 

7 . . . 

. . . . G 

38. . . 

, ... 32 

G7. . . 

. . .57 

10. . 

. . . . 9 

39 . . . 

. . .32 

G8. . . 

. . .57 

11. . 

. . . . 9 

40. . , 

. . . .33 

G9. . . 

. . .58 

12. . 

. . . .10 

41. . . 

. . . .34 

70 . . . 

. ..59 

i:i. . 

. . . .11 

42. . , 

. . . .35 

71. . . 

. . .GO 

14. . 

. . . .12 

43. . , 


72. . . 

. . . G1 

15. . 

. . . .12 

44. . 

. . .37 

73 . . . 

. . .G2 

IG. . 

. . . .13 

45. . 

. . . .38 

74. . . 

. . .G2 

17. . 

. . . .14 

4G. . 

. . . .38 

75. . . 

. ..G3 

18. . 

. . . .15 

47. . 

. ... 39 

7G. . . 

... 64 

19. . 

. . . .IG 

48.. 

. . . .40 

77. . . 

. . .65 

20 . . 

. . . .17 

49. . 

. . . .41 

78. . . 

GG 

21. . 

. . . .18 

50. . 

. . . .42 

7^1. . . 

, . . .67 

22 

. . . .18 

51. . 

42 

80. . . 

. . .67 

23. . 

. . . .19 

52. . 

. . . .43 

81. . . 

, ... 68 

24. . 

20 

53. . 

. . . .44 

82. . . 

, . . .69 

25. . 

. . . .21 

54. . 

. . . .45 

83. . . 

. . . .70 

2G. . 

. . . .22 

55. . 

. . . .4G 

84. . , 

. . . .71 

27. . 

22 

5G. . 

. . . .47 

85. . , 

. . . .71 

28. . 

. . . .23 

57. . 

. . . .48 

8G.. , 

. . . .72 

29. . 

. . . .24 

58. . 

. . . .49 

87.. 

. . ..73 

30 . . 

. . . .25 

59. . 

. ... 50 

88. . , 

. ... 74 

31. . 

. . . .2G 

GO. . 

. ... 50 

80. . 


32. . 

. . . .27 

G1 . 

. . . .51 

90. . 

. . . .76 

33. . 

. . ..27 

G2. . 

. ... 52 

91. . 

. ... 77 

34. . 

. . ..28 

G3. . 

. ... 53 

92. . 

....78 

35 . . 

29 

G4. . 

. . . .54 

. 94.. 

. . . .79 



INDEX TO PAGES 


OF THE 

“COLLECTION SCHICK,” 

on which may be found the first paragraphs of each page of the 
English Translation. 

O 

ALL IN VAIN. 


English. 

German. 

English. 

Gerynan. 

English. 

German. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

5... 

.. .. 5 

18. . 

. . . .16 

31. . . 

. . .27 

6. . . 

.. .. 5 

19. . 

. . . .16 

32. . . 

. . .28 

7 . . . 

, . . . 6 

20. . 

. . . .17 

33. . . 

. . .28 

8. . , 

. . . . 7 

21. . 

....18 

34. . . 

. . .29 

9. . , 

.... 8 

22. . 

. . . .19 

35. . . 

. . .30 

10. . , 

. . . . 9 

23. . 

. . . .21 

36. . . 

. . .31 

11. . . 

, . . .10 

24. . 

. . . .21 

37. . . 

. . .31 

12. . , 

. . . .11 

25. . 

. . . .21 

38. . . 

. . .32 

13. . 

. . . .12 

26. . 

. . . .22 

39. . . 

. .33 

14. . , 

. . . .12 

27. . 

. . . .23 

40 . . . 

. . .34 

15.., 

. . ..13 

28. . 

. . . .25 

41. . . 

... 35 

16. . , 

. . . .14 

29. . 

. . ..25 

42. . . 

. . .36 

17... 

.. ..15 

30. . 

. . . .26 






o 





FIRST 

LOVE. 



English. 

German. 

English. 

German. 

English. 

German. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

PAGE. 

5. . , 

.... 5 

7. . 

. . .. 6 

10. . . 

. .. 9 

6. . , 

.. .. 6 

9. . 

. . . . 8 









A < ^ 


PRICE 25 CENTS PER NUMBER; $4.00 PER YEAR. 



THE OVERLAND 
LIBRARY. 

NOVELS, SKETCHES AND 

HUMOROUS STORIES, 

* 

BY THE BEST M 0 D E R N AUTH 0 R S. 

No. 1. 


RUDOLF LINDAU, 

HANS, THE DREAMER, 

ALL IN VAIN, 

■ FIRST. LOVE. 





A NUMBER ISSUED EVERY THREE WEEKS. 


The Overland Library. 

Novels, Sketches and Humorous Writings, 

BY 

The Best Modern Authors. 

Price 25 Cents per Number; ^4.00 per Year. 

Issued in Numbers, one appearing every Three Weeks. 

— Three Numbers constitute a Volume. — 

An elegant Linen Binding Cover can be had for 20 cents additional. 

Price of Bound Volume 85 Cents. 

o 

PROSPECTUS. 

That “Life is short” is an expression characteristic of 
this country. To the many who, absorbed in a busy life, find 
but little leisure — to those, therefore, to whom “Life is short” 
— this Library is especially dedicated. Short stories, and 
sketches, humorous and otherwise, each of which will serve 
to occupy a leisure hour or to round out a short afternoon, 
have been made the chief feature in this undertaking. 

In selecting the writings, I have not been guided so 
much by the author’s reputation, as by a careful and personal 
examination of the stories. I have endeavored to make a 
distinction between the expression of real feeling and mere 
invention, and to choose that which seemed to me character- 
istic in itself and characteristic of the author’s peculiar indi- 
viduality. While this series thus appeals more especially to 
the cultivated reader, yet I hope that it will win and retain a 
circle of friends among the great number who enjoy and ap- 
preciate clearness and simplicity in sentiment and language. 

In the following lines the contents of the first four num- 
bers are briefly indicated : 

No. I. STORIES AND NOVELS by RUDOLF LINDA U. 

Hans, the Dreamer. — A short novel which recalls Bret Harte’s 
[Continued on 3d page of Cover.] 


best work. The scene is laid first in Paris, and afterwards in a Cali- 
fornia mining camp, and one of the characters especially — George 
Warden — is delineated in a way aS characteristic of mining life and 
customs as' it is interesting and amusing in its individual features. 
Love, with and minus philosophy, is the leading theme — the hero, 
Thomas Midford, being a philosopher, and the heroine, Edith Comyn, 
a Paris belle. From every point of view this novel is a gem, one of 
the best for reading out loud to be found in any language. ^ 

Ai.l in Vain. — A story of rare simplicity and earnestness, re- 
lated in a corresponding style. 

First Love. — A dainty, fanciful little story told to a circle of 
friends gathered around an open fire in a Paris salon. No one can 
read it without re-reading it with pleasure. 

No. 2. STORIES AND NOVELS by FANNY LEWALD. 

The Aristocratic World. — A story of the Russian Court. 
The life of a Russian Countess in aristocratic society — her noble char- 
acter and tragic fate — form the subject of this affecting narrative, in 
which the celebrated authoress displays her keenly realistic descrip- 
tive talent in a remarkable degree. The original German (No. 2 of 
the “Collection Schick”) is considered a very fine specimen of pure, 
unadorned and fluent German. 

The Maid of Oyas. — A sketch of nature and life at Dunkirk, 
a French watering place. 

No. 3. STORIES AND HUMOROUS SKETCHES by 
ERNST ECKSTEIN and ADOLF WILBRANDT. 

ECKSTEIN, The Visit to the Lock-up; The Boarding- 
School Girls. — Two of the best humorous sketches of this popular 
author. 

WILBRANDT, The Pilot Captain. — One of the best prose- 
writings of this celebrated dramatist. 

No. 4. SELECTED STORIES by PAUL HEYSE. 

L’Arrabiata. — One of the most beautiful of Heyse’s short 
stories. 

Beppo, the Stargazer.— a Venetian story of a melancholy 
husband and a merry wife, which terminates happily. 

Maria Francisca. — The love of an Italian rope-walker for a 
German artist. Genuine piety, superstition and deep womanly feel- 
ing, closely interwoven and delineated in these pages with rare fidelity 
of detail, make this story one of the most charming of those fasci- 
nating studies of character in which Heyse has rarely been equalled. 


The spirit of Italian life and the perfection of diction characteristic ot 
the author are common to all three of these stories. 

In connection with the 

OVERLAND LIBRARY 

the originals of all the stories are published simultaneously 
in Grerman, the series being called the 

• “COLLECTION SCHICK," 

each number in the Library corresponding to the same num- 
ber in the ‘^Collection’' of which it is a translation, made 
with great care in good English, the style of the original 
being followed as closely as possible. 

I am confident that corresponding numbers of the Library 
and Collection used together or alternately, will be found of 
the greatest assistance to 

Those Studying G-erman or English. 

This way of acquiring a language is acknowledged by all 
to be a most valuable aid in instruction ; it is certainly more 
interesting to translate ideas than long lists of dry words 
which form. the main contents of the usual grammar. 

As every one likes to see a result from his efforts, the stu- 
dent is anxious to test his, proficiency in the language he is ac- 
quiring, and I have learned from an experience of many years 
in the book trade that it is a difficult matter for the American 
studying Gremian to find aliy thing suitable and interesting 
for a beginner to read. The “ Collection Schick ” and Over- 
land Library” are intended to supply this demand, so that 
Americans studying the G-erman language or Germans study- 
ing English, can have at their disposal a series of bright, 
entertaining, witty and humorous stories of the highest 
literary merit, selected with great care and accompanied by 
translations which serve as dictionary and teacher combined. 

The “ Overland Library ” and its German companion the 
“Collection Schick ” therefore appeal to both the American 
and German public from whom the publisher begs a cordial 
support in his undertaking. 

L. SCHICK. 

Chicago, April, 1885. 



ur 




»P' ' nfc 

Va, -.s f*s 


» Vi 






'^• w ■ < ' ■> 








wvjHi^' ; 


,y WP^ 


i}f ^ 


r 





■%/’ 


± ?.‘. 


r- 



' •' .&* 


y' 


1 


W.-'VS 


UTV 


t’ 


4 » 


f|V> 


I ill 




'I' 


Pa '.'* if, 

'■i' v;^;:' 

i ” .’* r.' 






Jo" 




■is?' 




'>;{ 


, </• 






M 


^uteM 


• /. n 


« 


'iif^ 


i‘: 


i\^ 




I ,',(' 




jfii 


.*>. *''i' 


I 











L^V 




• V 


» ’-I 


. f 


>♦ <• 




*4 I . -i 


ff 






Ei. 


I I 


►; T. 


I y. 


IV 'I 


'-■'•fi' '-.fc 




I/Sm 


’4 < I, 


•k 


* U 


:KM 


'1' * « 


»■>. * 

' V* * .V 


'-Mi 






■ IV41 


■■;V'.r-.‘ 


V. 


V \ 




r 




>f 


III > 


4! 


' 'k\ ' >• ( < 


' ' ‘. .*i 

S y/ 








' vV''f<V ; * 

fc ' • . . ’ i • 

,-.1 . ^ 


‘ ' % 1,1 fmMn 

.•• , :.i^, ’iv- 


■VI V 


i^Vj 


V V 


7 


J. 4 


» » 


*V ^■ ^ 

' .‘. rV ' 


■ ^v ( 


i-'S 


i‘ i 


#«. 


% 4 




^ irn 


* i • 






V*'/ 


# ' ^ I 1 

V ■■■¥ 


K' 


.[ Vj 


i 




[Cl 


Jf 




I.- f 


,v 


■-’ > I 


• 5 !^ 




1 . ■ 

* V 




if / 4 


.)?! 


';. y 


Vi 




H L? 


nn 


a--^ /- 




.' ) 






r^j 


‘y 


i 


V* 


V * 


/ 1 


Jb 


u’* 






'S i 


0% 






'Ht 






j^V' 


i I 




m 


JVi 


/ Xv ^1 ‘ ' 


i ' 




I* ' 


V ■ . 


/AS ' •J'" 'A'^/ 


eV 


I' 


I'i^V 


Vi' 


f 7 *H * 






* 

.'I'Ai '4 .> 4 ' V 


Jif 


'’. ' ,■' ; ,>:iV 


'S.;Aa, 


M- 


> .■>>■’■ V' 


'it 






L- I 


V 




I • 


< y 


i Iri 


\ " I ' 

<' .,' ■-jiW 


' .n’.L 


v: 




I , t 




TA; 




“t 


A 




:^.v 




r’t 

'I* • •» 


K 


! \» 




^.i>- 


!•• im.l 


fi 


Vi ki 


:n}: 




,<v' 


«lA 7 j 




* -9 


- j:_il 




1. 


.1. 








» * r 







* A 


W ’ 


% 


' y 


r 








‘■fci 


i 






% 


V, .p^,>*' 

v3. 

.. 'f 

' .u'^^fr 

' vi 

■ » r. fl 

*■ .: .V '*■’ 


.!• 


■ . < 




rj 


■*'. ] ,♦• <} 

! 1* 


'j,t' . 






i*'iA 








'i' 

I Vif 

: 

■ 

^4i‘*. 




h 


V.^*‘ 


:i\ 


!•* ,^^} 


'* tJ 


♦V »;■; 








m 















c> -* V. . ✓ 

(?' ^ 

' ■ ^ ^> -v 

V ^V,Z^NOvS\\ ‘ I .JBl « / . A. V 

O o' 





•H -rlt 





xO®<. 


A' , ' ' « ♦ " ’ ' o’^'^ c 0 ‘ 

o.'’*Oa v> vO^ s'' ^/> O V 'J- ^ vO 

' % .^,v 

*'," Itw-' -.^p.' #'■%' 

S ■ <\ O Jn ^0 '^1 

vX^ ii ' ‘ ^ o >! c . .iV\ <1 ^ ‘ ^ 

,\ ^ ^ Mi//^ ■ 





I 





o o' 

"" = 

> sX- 

O V <« Qt 

^ ^ r' ^r: ^ 

« 




* r 5 ? '^51 '='_ - A « 

1 . ^ ,^k/}h o .V' 


"'■. 0 ^’ ss^'^rv* v>] . 

j#TSSk<rm « Y* 







- ' / cO ^ ^ ^ ' V\’' ^ ^ 0 ^^“ 


■^oo'< 



''N 'TV 

\V ^ 'S 

• » » . 1 * 4 ® 

> O' s 

:'VW'" I 

o 4 \V cP- -> ''(///^: 




rs y 

O ^ 0 M 0 ^ V V ^ ^ fl 1 A * >1 

' r *V ‘X^ < 4 - 












y 

< 0 ^ y -s 

-A’* S ^ N ® \| 

O' c> V 

<x '<^- oc> 





ON C ^V>^' ,V.. , c«^ <■ « 

- 0 - <?„ .-r °t, fP 


0 


O o' 


J> A-. 





y 

y 

V 

X«°- 

,. NO- ,' 

J- ' ' " ^ > aO' . ' ' ,n«.' ''" » '< * 0 A 




■ t^4 ..i 1 liL !■ j'i j .9 ii '! i ' j. ! 


^fiTx ■» ,6^ 

’ t.\ ' « V- • ^ i (\ 





. °..WM 

\ , Cf' * iCl 4 




,o-\.»“'=./'^, r ij';-'". 

*•“ o' .• <■2^'. ’■’■^ v*' -- 

.0 0, 


A' N 

^ r Jt »S. * 4m 






5 M 0 •’ 



V ^ 




^ * s ’ \^ ,3 ^ 0 ^ V -0^ 

* ^ '> O o' 

'^* r\ 





^o«v^ 0’^ ’<' ‘V,'' is 

~f- 

s'» . , N 0 ’* ..o’ { 

^ ^ V‘ " 'V > o> s ^ ^ " 4 

^ ^ .aa^’ - r((\^rA ^ 

.r ,x/,vv /X.VT- <» CL >* - \' 

... 'V %. ' ■■' '^' 

. c^* * *€) d> -A o V' ^ 

A O. or „ . , .» 



' " ^ A. 

.W\ ^ '^' 





,\V ° 

■^ • A 

\ A <>' * 

»•-.'.<' , , , '?/- ^ 0 , K ■» 

a\ ^ ^/r?9^^ ^ 



S j.' 

^^oTo^*/' V^3'^v -.•* ’ 


o n' 




V f/> 





<P <C V a, 


■^0*. oV’'’ ■^' 

o 


» ' 0 y . 



< s''" 

AU)'^ ''■ A' 


aV tp ^ 

y ' 


%. ■ * . s <A .'J' 
V 

it "V' 


1: 


Nr 


■\ 

* 0 ^ 


C>> ^ 


K.r^ /t O 


\ I 



^/^MWaT 

C^' - * ^ ^ ^ o'- 

'^•' '^'° ' >■ "* A*’ 

.% °0 ,.0^,<°^‘ 




.0^0'.”''’'.’^ 
"'o •^<. * 


A\'^' 

t, AV 





>? "<P * ^ ^ <«'•«* '^>5 ^ ^ ^ ^ 

^^ , ... o nA ^ V , ■< *^o PtX 






: \0 ®<. 


1 

0 N O \ V 


^0 




0.V y^^ry •'5c ' 

' 





A-'^ • 

\> ^ ^ ^ ' 





